


The Blue Star Break

by aureliu_s, Iunara, TheWolfWhoWaited



Series: The Dragonborn Era [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Blood Magic, Character Death, College of Winterhold - Freeform, Dragon Priests Make an Appearance, F/M, Female Protagonist, Flashbacks, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Mild Gore, Modded Skyrim, Multi, Multiple Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Multiple Protagonists, Multiple Relationships, Other, Pining, Psijics Going Crazy, Quaranir is tired, Running Away, Skyrim Civil War, Temporary Character Death, The Author Regrets Nothing, There's TWO Miraaks, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Why Did I Write This?, dragon break, inventing skyrim lore on my own, ragtag team to save the world, skyrim lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2020-10-10 19:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 114,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliu_s/pseuds/aureliu_s, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iunara/pseuds/Iunara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWolfWhoWaited/pseuds/TheWolfWhoWaited
Summary: "We were all brought here for a reason. We were all brought together for a reason. We're going to have to work together if we want even the slightest chance of succeeding. Are we together?""We're together.""Good. Let's fix this shit and go home."***Dragon Breaks are highly disputed events that dot the history of Tamriel, and are largely unknown to the general populace. They occur during a powerful fracture of time, unraveling the linear construct and creating countless different offshoot timelines throughout the world. When the dust settles and Ulfric has been defeated, Miraak vanishes without a trace and the stars begin to disappear from the sky. Without knowing it, the two Dragonborns have set in motion a Dragon Break of their own making...or at least, mostly of their own making. With the help of some unlikely allies, Tharya and Miraak set out once more to set the records straight and save Tamriel from itself before it is lost to the sands of Time.





	1. Companion Works!

unfortunately this isn't a real chapter, but i thought i would stop to make a post about some fics people have written (people whose dragonborns are featured in this very fic!) that either provide background, help us understand characters more, or explain references to these companion works. they are as follows:  
  
**Cara & Miraak**

_written by_ _TheWolfWhoWaited_

[Ven Aak Hi -](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20020066/chapters/47405146)

The work of a Dragonborn is never done, Cara discovers as she is attacked on the streets of Whiterun. Assassins, sent for her. Following the trail to Solsthiem, she finds knowledge and fights for not only her life, but that of one thought long gone from this world.

With two Dovahkiinne in the same era, in such close proximity, what could happen?

A tale of a reluctant and anonymous Dragonborn, her trials, tribulations, relationships, and path to her greater destiny.

[Felniir -](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728925/chapters/49247657)

After Miraak and Cara's New Life confessions to one another, there's at least another three months before they can travel across the province again.

Miraak teaches, Cara trains, they figure out how their relationship has changed now that they are lovers.

Love, it seems, is their newest challenge.

**Ayera & Erador**

_written by Iunara_

[Voice of Strife -](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161747/chapters/18702874)

Three years she spent running from her destined duty. As the wheel slowly turned upon her, the last Dragonborn, she finds that there was nowhere left to run. When a Thalmor begs her for help, she will have to flee from Ulfric and his campaign to free Skyrim. Flee Skyrim to prepare while dragons ravage the whole of Tamriel.

This story was inspired by the "Diplomatic immunity quest" when I was sneaking around and overheard a few Thalmor soldiers talking about how they were worried about the dragon threat. Alongside with the Dossier about the dragons, it seemed to confirm that the Thalmor had no idea either and would want to take matters into their own hands and gain a powerful weapon/ally in the process.

[Strife's Silence -](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18089771/chapters/42760037)

These are the scenes that won't be shown on "Voice of Strife". Will be random scenes and interactions that I wanted to write and wished to share. Mostly background at the moment, maybe some scenes that were missed. You can request what you want to read.

**Veros**

_written by trailtothetruth_

[The Fight - And Fate -](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641142)

A Dragonborn from another timeline fights Miraak. A companion piece to Blue Star Break by aureliu_s.

stay on the lookout for more content from these wonderful people!! i know for a fact they are all involved in a wide array of fandoms so i highly encourage you to check out their works :)

**Tharya & Miraak** (bro if you haven't read these already what are you even doing reading BSB)

_written by aureliu_s_

[Apocrypha](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17110697/chapters/40240646) (i'm not putting descriptions bc i'm lazy)

[Dragonmark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17411495/chapters/40984619) (pleas check tags & warnings before reading this!)

[Break of Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001868/chapters/42529100) (yes this is the order you should read them in)

[Sic Parvis Magna](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116126/chapters/47654470) (ooh latin)

[My Brother's Keeper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264633/chapters/49309283) (this one some people might've missed)

Blue Star Break (this fic ya numbskull)


	2. Companion Works!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone, i'm super happy to be back and with this NEW COOL FIC i've been planning for sooo long! think of it as the infinity war of the dragonborn era series. a huge combination of characters, badass plotline, and (hopefully) good writing. as always, dovahzul translations will be at the end. i'm thinking of trying to update every weekend, but we'll see how well that goes. y'all know me, i don't have regular update schedules. the title may also be changed a little, so keep an eye out for that!
> 
> if y'all haven't read the amazing stuff put out by my homies [TheWolfWhoWaited](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWolfWhoWaited) and [Iunara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iunara) yet, YOU SHOULD. this fic will feature their characters!!! and it's just totally worth the read. on top of that, if you haven't read [My Brother's Keeper - 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264633/chapters/49309064) (found in my [fics, drabbles & prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264633/chapters/40600685)) you SHOULD because that is also important!!! happy reading everyone!

“Besides, Jorstus is well-known for being reliable. But I hope he does Ramia well.” His feet grew heavier with each step, eyelids closing. His body seemed to sag like a stretched sack of rocks. Tharya’s talking had annoyed him, sometimes, but never been enough to put him to sleep like this. He enjoyed the sound of her voice too much to completely ignore it. “He’s been wanting to be married for as long as I can remember. I’m not sure I see the appeal, though.” His vision went skewed, somehow, and suddenly Tharya was walking ahead of him with her feet on the sky, and the road below her head. When he managed to look down, he was doing the same. His stomach churned.

_ He’s been wanting to be married for as long as I can remember. _ He repeated her words back to himself. Whatever was happening to him, he could anchor himself through Tharya, stay in the present with her. Whatever was pulling at him, Tharya could pull him back. _ But she doesn’t see the appeal of it. _

“I’m sure the College is used to my leaving by now, but I had hoped to stay at least a little longer before the next...excursion.” A shallow laugh. Miraak felt bile rise to his throat and then the world seemed to swing back into alignment. His feet were on the road, but the road was...water. He stumbled over the littlest waves. When he blinked it became ice, and snow struck his face with the force of a million little knives. He blinked again and again and each time the world changed, and each time Tharya remained constantly ahead of him, now walking through a desert, now a dark swamp, now continuing her leisurely pace through a blazing forest of fire. He had to run to keep up with her, but every step seemed to draw her further and further away. His anchor was slipping, slipping, just out of his grasp...

And then she was gone.

“-but what do you think?”

The world was right again. He was still on the frosty road leading south of Winterhold. He could neither feel Tharya’s presence nor speak to her.

“Miraak?”

“I am here, _ dii fil,_” his own voice sounded desperate to his ears. Suddenly her feet stopped. She listened to the breeze, and then turned to smile at him.

But he wasn’t there.

He watched her clear eyes survey the road, the tundra, the barren trees and the faraway speck of Winterhold. She looked confused. He moved closer. Surely she could see him. Surely she could. She had to. At her feet he glimpsed a pile of dust that had not been there before, and a glittering necklace that winked devilishly at her.

The Last Dragonborn shifted again, grip tightening on her spear. She shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand, and called to the bitter wind:

“Miraak?”

There was no reply. He was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dii fil - my star, miraak's nickname for tharya  
one chapter down! hopefully not like 31 more to go but we'll see


	3. Death Seeks Also

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya makes an announcement to the college; cara and miraak are visited by a strange acquaintance.
> 
> this chapter is on the shorter side but all chapters will probably vary in length :) cara & miraak belong to thewolfwhowaited, go check her stuff out PLEASE you'll be so glad you did! :)

Each expectant eye watched as the Arch-Mage entered the Hall of Elements, her face sullen and stoic. It was a well-known fact that she’d missed multiple nights of sleep—apprentices and masters alike had found her surrounded by a cove of books in the Arcanaeum, buried in piles that had only grown in the past month. The spearhead affixed to one end of her staff clicked solemnly against the stone floor as she walked, the large wooden doors bumping closed behind her.  
  
“You don’t have to do this right now,” Serana urged quietly. Tharya paused just out of earshot of the rest of the College, examining each robed figure patiently awaiting her announcement. With a foreign and faraway look in her eyes, Tharya turned back to the vampire, fixing her gaze on the wall just past the woman’s shoulder.  
“If I do it now maybe I can sleep tonight.” She mumbled with an empty sort of fascination to her words. 

She knew she would not. No matter what she said, or what she did. No sleep would come. No rest would grace her.

“I know that not many of you knew the First Mage very well. He wasn’t here long,” Tharya began, finally lifting her gaze from the stones below her boots to the inquisitive eyes of the College. “He wasn’t the most open or friendly person in the world, but...in his short time here I believe he came to appreciate the College, our students, our work. Above all he loved magic, and gods know if there’s any place in Skyrim for magic, it’s here.” That earned a few nervous chuckles from the ones who didn’t know whether or not they should be laughing. She allowed herself a little grin. “And I know it would come as a surprise to most of you if I said his sense of humor was unmatched.” More confident laugher, tired and low, just as much as she expected from the end of the day. “But at this point, after a hard month of searching with no results, I have to go with what my conscious is telling me is best for the College. I’m still the Arch-Mage, after all,” this time only she chortled, pressing her toes against the inside of her boots, “and we’re just wasting our resources. I will continue to search for a magical explanation for his disappearance but I can no longer ask you, teachers of the College, whose job it is to teach, and students, whose job it is to learn—I can no longer ask you to put aside the important work you’re doing here in favor of a...” she swallowed thickly, willing her voice to stop shaking. “Personal mishap.”

Beside her Serana sighed low and exasperated. Tharya blinked rapidly, readjusting her grip on her spear. Tears welled behind her eyes but she shoved them down. Only a couple more words. A couple more words and she’d be done. She could retreat to her barricade of books, search aimlessly for hours, try to sleep alone in a cold bed that wailed for another presence but never received one.  
  
“From now on, I think it best we declare the cause of the First Mage’s disappearance unknown. His remains,” she thought of the bag of ashes she’d thrown in the wardrobe, now dusty from remaining unopened, holding the precious few belongings he had garnered in the past months of this domestic life, “undiscovered. And he, he himself...” She felt her bottom lip tremble and sucked it in for a moment, feeling the shaking spread to her whole body for a split second before the familiar numbness replaced it. “Dead.”

* * *

They filed out of the hall with solemn but disinterested faces. What had she expected? That hadn’t known him like she had. Hadn’t known his smile, his eyes, his touch, his scars, his voice. His heart. They hadn’t known his arms as a safe haven or his lips a source of comfort. They had seen him moving in the halls and training in the yard and sometimes, sometimes teaching. They’d seen him roaming the Arcanaeum like a wisp. Even more scarcely they’d seen him perched on the base of Shalidor’s statue with a thin stick of charcoal and an empty page. But they did not know him.  
“I will mourn for him and for the Arch-Mage, but I’m glad she finally decided to come to her senses.”

Those words struck her like a slap across the face. _ Come to my senses? _ Tharya swiveled around to look for the source of the voice, finding that most of the apprentices and lower level mages were already gone. J’zargo, Brelyna, and Onmund hung back. Her friends. Her class. The ones she had entered the College with, now talking quietly amongst themselves.  
“I wonder how she plans to continue her search,” the second voice was older, more exasperated. “The poor girl. She’s exhausted every book in the library. I wish I had an explanation.”  
“Gods, so do I.” Tharya didn’t realize she said it aloud. She was heading for the dusky corner Mirabelle and Tolfdir had squeezed themselves into, arms crossed, discussing her as if she was some sidetable gossip. Discussing _ him _ as if he was last week’s news.  
“This one looks tired,” J’zargo caught her arm just before she reached her two senior mages. Mirabelle caught her out of the corner of her eye, though, and paled before quickly ending her conversation with Tolfdir. _ I know_, Tharya growled somewhere in her head, _ I know_. “J’zargo will walk with the Arch-Mage to her room, yes?” The Khajiit linked their arms together and dragged her off towards the stairs.

Dukaan stood as J’zargo deposited Tharya just inside the doorway, saying goodnight and disappearing. The Dragon Priest had been seated near the crackling blue fire, folded robes that weren’t his own gripped between his hands. His chestnut eyes looked sympathetically at her across the room.  
“_Drey hi nii? _ ” He asked quietly. Tharya gave a solemn nod, crossing the dark room, gliding past the bed to the desk. It was littered with _ his _ books of choice, the ones Urag was of a mind not to ask for back yet, his writing. Mostly in High Atmoran—she would recognize the glyphs of Dovahzul, but this was more flowing, more elegant, less jagged. The Priest stood, folding the dark violet robes over his arm, touching the jagged golden thread framing the neckline with a forlorn affection. He didn’t walk far. The weight of the world seemed to be dragging on his heels, weighing his legs.

It had been a month since Miraak had vanished. A month of dreary, bland, lifeless time. A void. Miraak was by no means the most vibrant person, but he had changed from the arrogant man Dukaan had known. Dukaan had loved him even then, even so flawed and reckless. But now he was more, he was new. There was a new air about him. Something calmer, something wiser, something matured. The fire had not left those beautifully golden eyes but it had been tamed to burn just as brightly, just as hot, but less destructively. He was not vibrant like Tharya, not gleaming, but he commanded a presence. Attention. He attracted people like light attracts the moths. And when you looked close enough, when you settled into his presence and found solace in his conversation, found wonder in his oh-so-rare smile. Once you _ knew _ him, he was hard to leave.

And to know he had been taken, to know he had been whisked away by forces they could not explain or identify...if Dukaan was a vengeful man, it would make his blood boil. But he did not share Miraak’s appetite for revenge or fury. No, his missing brother made his heart weep. And he was not afraid to admit that.

“Do you think I’m wasting my time?”  
Dukaan looked up from his perch on the side of her bed, letting Miraak’s robes fall limp in his lap.  
“What do you mean?” He turned to look at Tharya when she didn’t respond right away, leaning against her desk with her arms crossed and gaze pointed at the floor.  
“Looking for him. Do you think I’m wasting my time?” She repeated. “Mirabelle and Tolfdir do. I heard them talking about it.” Dukaan felt his shoulders deflate and he let out a long, pained sigh. The last thing she needed was this heavy doubt weighing her down.  
“You two have a very unique connection,” he said uncertainly, “can you feel him?”

Tharya gave a light shrug.  
“I thought I could, but maybe I was just fooling myself.”  
“No, _ ahtlahzey_.” For a split second she heard Miraak’s voice in those words, that one flowing noun of Dovahzul, and her eyes darted up to fix on the Dragon Priest across the room. Half-expecting familiar golden eyes to be looking back at her. Met with dull irises of soil brown. “You are not. If he is alive, there is no one else who would be able to feel it but you. Trust your instinct.” Dukaan nodded once. “Trust yourself. Trust him.”

_ I will do anything to save us, ahtlahzey. Trust in me now. _

* * *

“If there are no more questions,” Cara gave the room one of those flowing warm smiles, surveying the empty air. No hands. No questions. “That-”

He felt it first. A shift in the magical energy of the room. A disturbance. Cara went rigid after a moment, her words trailing off. In the very back of the chamber a new magical aura presented itself, and around them the world was draped in a blanket of pale blue. Time itself seemed to slow to a halt. A figure clad in pale golden robes emerged from a glimmering portal that shimmered and moved like water touched by wind.

“Dragonborns,” the Altmer said, giving a gentle bow. He did not move, did not come to the front of the room, but stayed where he was. They examined him over the heads of their pupils. "It is imperative that we speak.”

* * *

They brought the Psijic out of the classroom and across the courtyard. Strangely enough, there were no curious eyes fixed on them. It was as if others only saw their Arch-Mage and the much-feared, much speculated-on Atmoran at her side. No Psijic. It unnerved Miraak the slightest bit, but Cara’s hand slid into his own as reassurance.  
“I know him,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder at the Altmer. “His name is Quaranir. We met when Tolfdir and I discovered the Eye of Magnus.” Miraak nodded slowly. He had heard much of that particular incident not only from Cara but from others around the College. A Dunmer woman, a Khajiit and a Nord seemed willing to share their extensive firsthand accounts of it. Part of him wished he had been there to see it all, to see the Eye for himself. Cara had also said that the Psijics had come to take it away after she defeated Ancano, so perhaps...they still had it.

They led Quaranir to the Arch-Mage’s quarters just as the sun dipped below the horizon. With a wave of her hand Cara lit each candle and torch in the room, and the scattering of papers around the desk and daybed became evident.  
“Ignore the mess,” she moved to arrange the papers but Quaranir waved it off.  
“It is of no hindrance to our discussion.” Miraak migrated towards the dark fireplace and crouched to shift the logs, a spark forming at his fingertips. The nights in Winterhold were notoriously frigid, even in the very first days of spring. The fire sputtered to life and Miraak sank into his seat beside it, absently running his fingers over his braided blond hair. Stormy eyes fixed on the Psijic, examining his robes, the red and white accents. His golden skin and pale eyes.  
“Why are you here, monk?” He asked bluntly, leaning forward just the slightest bit.

The Psijic remained undeterred by his ominous presence, his lips pressed into a cool line.  
“I am here because I would humbly request your help in a matter that is far beyond the reach of your lives.” He replied, and across the room the First and Last Dragonborn frowned at each other. “Indeed, it affects all of Time in ways you cannot imagine.”  
“We are listening.” Miraak huffed.

“There are...others, such as yourselves.” Quaranir shifted in his seat beside the fire, graciously accepting the cup of steaming tea Cara offered him before she sat beside Miraak. The static of magic wafted from the thin column of steam rising from the cup.

_"Dovahkiin?_"

"Yes and no. Other Dragonborns, other...Miraaks..." he said slowly, "others who have fulfilled Alduin's Prophecy. Not here, but in multiple timelines across Fabric of Time."

Cara examined him for a moment, before leaning forward.

"What are you trying to say, Quaranir?"

The Psijic sighed.

"Time has been..._broken_, I believe by one of your contemporaries. The Fabric is torn." He looked just the slightest bit annoyed, but sounded like a parent explaining to a child the wrongdoing of one of their siblings. "It was not visible to her until very recently, but her companion-" he eyed Miraak, "-noticed it some weeks ago. Unfortunately, he has...become a casualty of the Break."

Cara set her tea down.

“What can we do?”

“I would ask you travel to Artaeum with me,” Quaranir drew himself up, back to his impeccable posture, “I would ask that you assist in mending the Fabric and stopping the Break. However, our first order of business would not concern you, but rather your peer I spoke of earlier. You have time, if you wish, to think.”

Miraak opened his mouth.

“We'll come,” Cara cut in before he could get a syllable out, "give us a minute to get our things. We'll come."

Quaranir looked mildly surprised, but more proud than anything.

“I must warn you, Dragonborns. The path will not be easy. If you come,” he looked at them both, “I can only promise your safety while you are guests of the Psijic Order. But I cannot, through any stretch of my powers, promise your survival.”  
Cara and Miraak shared a long, testing look. Finally, the Altmer Dragonborn diverted her attention back to Quaranir.  
“We wouldn’t expect you to,” she nodded once, “nothing easy ever made a good story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahtlahzey - archmage  
drey hi nii - did you do it? (like the thanos meme)


	4. A Voice in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya continues her drab life. miraak faces obstacles in the void. quaranir recruits another dragonborn to the cause.
> 
> so, how is everyone liking it so far? i'm thinking updates will come once a week, since i seem to be doing alright with writing pace for now. as usual, i probably won't keep that pace, but whatevs. ayera & erador belong to iunara, YOU SHOULD GO READ HER STUFF!!!!! voice of strife is A++

_ “The sky looks...strangely empty, as of late."_

_ Tharya hummed something tired and broken into his neck, not moving a muscle to look at the blanket of stars above them. He couldn’t blame her; he felt partially guilty that all his tossing and turning had woken her up, but the pain in his leg was too great to ignore when all he was doing was lying in bed thinking of it. She suggested they look at the stars to take his mind off it, and so together, stumbling through the dark corridors of the College, they had found their way to the rooftop and laid side by side beneath the twilight sky. _

_ “Look,” he gently prodded her side and with a noise of protest she left the confines of his shoulder to blink blearily up at the night. “Does it not feel...lacking?” _

_ “Sure.” She yawned. Miraak snorted quietly. _

_ “You do not see it.” _

_ “I wasn’t First Mage,” Tharya replied, “it was never my job to watch the stars. Of course I don’t see it.” He could feel her staring at him for a beat longer before turning his gaze on her half-lidded eyes. She was always beautiful, but here in the pale speckling light of the stars with the strong twin moons casting dancing shadows over her face, she was exceptionally so. Before he could stop it a gentle smile pulled his lips upwards. “I know this was my idea, but this stone is making my ass hurt.” Miraak grinned. _

_ “How terrible.” _

_ “Thank you for your pity,” she cupped his jaw in both hands and kissed him sluggishly, “can we go to bed?” _

_ He looked up at the sky one last time, scanning the endless painting of the cosmos. Something was off—even if Tharya couldn’t see it. He remembered the Star Charts from the Cult, he remembered seeing Alduin’s defeat from his watery sphere in Apocrypha. He remembered what the sky had looked like. _

_ Directly above him, a blue point of light no bigger than his pupil winked knowingly. _

_ “Geh.” He sighed, feeling his shoulders deflate against the stone. “We can go to bed.” _

* * *

“You slept well last night?” Dukaan’s voice pulled her back to reality, slowly but surely. The last threads of her daydream slipped away, and along with it, the warmth that just briefly touched her core. It was replaced in a wave with the old refuge of unfeeling numbness.  
“I slept,” Tharya shrugged lightly, cradling the chipped tea cup Dukaan had given her in her palms. Another morning, another day. Another inescapable day. Another long, wasted, lonely day. “I suppose that’s _ well._” Dukaan ushered his best smile and sat on the bed beside her. They had become accustomed to sharing the bed in her quarters, though he never once got closer than an Atmoran arm length. It was simply for the presence of another. The knowledge of that presence, the security of knowing they would not be taken abruptly from the world with no rhyme or reason. 

Tharya made a mental note to thank him for it. That, just like her tendency to fall asleep in a shirt that was obviously not her own, was not a popular topic of discussion between them.  
  
“What will you do today?” He asked, looking down at his amber tea.  
“Return the books,” Tharya said mechanically. Whether she was talking about her books or Miraak’s she didn’t know. Whichever ones found themselves on Urag’s desk at the end of the day would be the ones she returned.  
“Ah.” Was all Dukaan said. “I think I will go for a walk today. I have not seen much of this _ Winterhold_.”  
“There isn’t much to see.”  
“Nonsense. You and your _ mindaziir _ have done very well for this town.” He scoffed. Tharya sipped her tea, staring at the opposite wall.  
“Not always.”

When Dukaan left, she took a bath. A long, hot bath, with some of the scented soap Elisif had gifted them after dethroning Ulfric. Elisif had given them a plethora of things, including silk bathrobes, the soaps, salts, ornate hairbrushes, a collection of Cyrodiilic skincare products, and fragrant shampoos. Most importantly, a larger bathtub. She chuckled emptily as she remembered Miraak squeezed into the tiny wooden one in Rorikstead, like a dragon trying to fit into a cup. He hadn’t shown it but he had been more than ecstatic to receive a tub he could truly _ fit in_. Baths had become something of a tradition between them, though it took time to become accustomed to. They were usually shared in the dark but just before his disappearance the First Dragonborn had been paying regular visits—and thus draining her coinpurse—to the candlemaker in town. He liked the glow, the soft light, the way the shadows danced on the water, on their skin. 

But now the tub was too big, too empty. There was no arm resting on the ledge for her to put her cheek on and no wet fingers delving into her hair. She did not linger in the bath, and when she got out, she did not take one of the silk bathrobes hanging on the door. 

She spent the day cleaning. She despised cleaning and was well-known for paying a group of apprentices to do it come spring, but she could think of nothing else to occupy herself with. Before dinner she returned her books to Urag, but the desk in her quarters went untouched. It remained a hurricane of papers and writing and tomes amidst a sparkling pristine sea. Serana poked in to bring her whatever the kitchens had cooked, but she left it for Dukaan. She was hardly hungry anymore. The substance of Miraak’s possible survival, somewhere, had sustained her this long. Now, as it was beginning to slip...nothing felt the same.

* * *

_ “This is troubling me, ahtlahzey.” Miraak said, finally looking away from the window and turning to Tharya. Her beast blood gave her the most irregular sleep schedule, so she was up at all hours of night. He had woken up alone and she had returned not twenty minutes later from the forge beneath the College, and one of many frequent conversations with someone called the Augur of Dunlain. _

_ “Gods, you’re up?” Tharya kicked off her boots. “It’s nearly dawn.” _

_ Miraak grunted his acknowledgement of that fact, sifting once again through the pages of the armful of open books he’d scattered on her desk. Astronomical tomes, each of them. Useless, each of them. _

_ “I need the Star Charts.” He mumbled to himself, planting both hands flat against the desk. Without that massive encyclopedia, he could get nowhere on this burning hunch. _

_ “You need a nap.” The Last Dragonborn chortled. _

_ But when she met his gaze, her smile faded. _

_ “You’re serious.” _

_ “Zu’u. The Charts were, in simplest terms, the first recorded history of the sky. The stars, the moons, the movements of the heavens. The incidents of Time itself were recorded in the sky. How do you think the Northern Lights came to be?” _

_ Tharya raised a scrutinizing eyebrow. _

_ “I’m sure whatever you’re about to say will destroy the scientific explanation that everybody agrees on for the Northern Lights.” _

_ “It will,” he said bluntly, grabbing one book off the desk and wandering towards the fire. The nights were still cold enough in Winterhold to keep a fire going, but the flames in the Arch-Mage’s chamber were a soft blue and never once had he seen them flicker out. In the heat they radiated cool and in the cold they emanated warmth. With a disappointed glare, he lazily tossed the tome into the flames, which quickly gurgled and gobbled it up. _  
_ “Did...did you just throw one of Urag’s books in the fire?” Tharya’s hand drifted to rest on his back and she stood beside him, looking in disbelief at the burning book. _  
_ “I did. The man boasts of his collection but has not a single volume of use to me.” _  
_ “That’s because you’ve read every book in existence, big guy.” Tharya laughed, shaking her head. He thought for a moment. _  
_ “I seem to remember avoiding the Lusty Argonian Maid.” The Atmoran mused. “The celibate life of a Priest has whittled my taste for such literature.” _ _  
“Like hell!” She barked. “I’m sure you read every volume three hundred times. Celibate life, Shor’s bones. That’s a good one.” She held his arm and shifted onto the balls of her feet to kiss his jaw. “Go to bed, you crazy bastard.”_

* * *

“You look awfully distraught,_ dii kul_.”

Miraak blinked and the memory was gone, whisked away like a leaf on the wind. His golden eyes lifted to search the infinite blackness of the Void. He had always said his death would bring him here, to the maddening, endless dark Vahlok had spoke of. And it had, as he’d predicted many a time. Though...something did not feel right. Some part of him, maybe, had tricked another part of him into believing he had a place in Sovngarde. Or at least _ Skærstenheim_, but the idea of purgatory seemed to have been lost somewhere in translation from Atmoran culture to the Nords of the present. Or perhaps they had not known how to pronounce it.

Miraak looked blearily up at Morokei. He had grown used to seeing his face. Morokei seemed to be the only other soul in this section of the Void, his only company. Secretly he was grateful for it. If being alone was what had driven Vahlok to such insanity, such deformation...even Morokei was welcome.  
“Nothing feels as it should,” the First Dragonborn sighed, rocking back from his crouched position to sit cross-legged on the ground. There was a bubbling stream not a foot from where he sat, no wider than his armlength. It glowed a soft green. Vaguely it reminded him of the skies of Apocrypha. On the other side of the stream the Void continued, but in a color that was not the same; a dark, rich grey, hardly a hue above black, but just light enough so it would be noticed.  
“Skærstenheim.” Morokei tapped his staff against the ground, following Miraak’s gaze across the water. “Though it is not presented to us as such. The greyness is meant to keep us from yearning after it. Believing Skærstenheim is the same as the Void makes us content with the Void. But I have heard it is quite lovely.” With an elderly groan the Priest sat beside him, smoothing his crimson robes against the ground. “You miss her?”

Miraak contemplated for a moment. It was a harmless question, and deep inside he knew Morokei rarely intended to antagonize him. It was his own temper that was often his undoing.  
“Very much,” the Dragonborn whispered. “I thought...” he sighed and looked up from his hands, almost surprised for a second when there was no sun, “I thought I would have more time.” He ran a hand back and forth over his hair.  
“Time is a fickle mistress, my boy.” Morokei sighed. “Those who wish to cheat her will find themselves rather unfortunately ruined. You were smart to not resist.” The older man looked at him and placed a weathered hand on his shoulder.  
“Yet I cannot find comfort in that.” Miraak felt his brow crease. “Seven months...it was not enough.”  
“And it never will be.” Morokei stood and gently tapped the younger Priest’s side with his staff. “Come away from the river, my boy. Should you mope too long at its edge the desire will overtake you.”

_ Desire_. He stared at the river and then at Skærstenheim. He had no desire to travel from the Void to purgatory. He would be just as far removed from the living as before, it would get him nowhere. He had only one desire that filled him now, that rushed into his lungs like breath and slid through his veins like blood.  
“You were able to contact me from this gods-forsaken place, Paidir. If you would just tell me-”  
“No, _ dii kul_. I’m afraid I cannot.” Morokei wondered at him for a moment. “You have not called me Father in many ages.” Miraak was struck silent. He didn’t remember the word ever leaving his lips.  
“I can still sense her presence, Morokei.” He clasped both hands against his heart, the lack of a steady beat below them making him shudder. She had always put a hand there, always spoken of being able to hear his heartbeat. “I know she is looking for me. If I could just tell her-”  
“What will you tell her, _ dii kul? _ ” Morokei turned suddenly, his voice remaining level. “What could she do? You are dead, my son, and I understand if it is difficult to come to terms with such a fact. You always thought yourself above death.”  
“That is not why I care, Paidir. I care because I left her. I know something is wrong. I can feel it. The world is not right.” Miraak took one look at the blankly pitying look on the other man’s face before he began to pace, his hands clasped loosely behind him. “This cannot be right,” Miraak breathed to himself, searching the canvas of black before him for anything to fix his stare on.  
“You worry too much, my son.” The old man shook his head. “I did not think you capable of doing so.”  
“Stop!” Miraak bellowed, swiveling on his heel. “I need to think.” He added uncertainly, gentler. “I do not need you telling what I am and am not capable of.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair.

“This cannot be right.” He said again. “I am dead. _ Diilon_. I should not be so _ attuned _ to the waking world...I should not be able to...” he turned to Morokei, features desperate and broken. “I should not be able to _ feel _her.”

* * *

The little shrine was hastily constructed, nothing more than an amulet wrapped around a triad of twigs, surrounded by low candles. An old stone statue of a faceless Mara had been nearly covered in slithering vines, and it was under her gaze they found the safety to pray. Nowhere else in the old fort seemed to have the same protection from the elements or outside eyes—even with its many cracks and crevices in the walls—except this one forgotten room. The rest of the repaired and renovated fort could not compare to the solace of this little broken down room atop the north tower. Now, at sundown, it was particularly beautiful, with dancing golden light peeking through holes in the stone and a cavity in the roof.  
  
Erador was first to move, disturbing the peace and stillness of his prayer to gaze up at Mara’s weathered features.  
“The winter will not be easy here.” He murmured, untangling his fingers to smooth them through his hair, brushing the tips of his cold ears. When he received no reply, he cast his forest green gaze on the half-Breton, half-Altmer beside him.  
“I heard you,” she reassured him, lifting her head from prayer as well. “We’ll make do.” Ayera reached out to squeeze his arm. “We always do.” They stood together and at once Erador wrapped her in his arms to ward off the bitter wind.  
“Always.” He echoed sullenly, squinting into the setting sun. They stood there for a long moment, fending off the dead winter air, dreaming of crackling fireplaces and soft beds with thick sheets, steaming soup in hot porcelain bowls.  
  
Ayera wriggled in his grip to look up at him, her hands curled tightly to retain warmth against his chest.  
“At least we’re together. And everyone’s with us.”  
“Yes, sundust.” Erador pressed his forehead down against hers, sighing lowly. He traced a golden finger over her snowy skin. “But if there’s a blizzard, I am _ not _ coming all the way up here to pray.” Ayera’s laugh seemed to break through the oppressive cold for just a moment, lighting the room the same way a well-fed fire would. “Auri-El can receive my gratitude from the warmth of bed.” Erador grinned.

“You sound in need of a vacation.”

They jumped in unison at the new voice, wheeling around to look at the stranger.  
“Who are you?” Erador was first to speak, but Ayera held him back.  
“I know your robes,” she studied the tall Altmer curiously, “you’re a Psijic.”  
“I thought Artaeum disappeared.” Erador grumbled.  
“Occasionally, it does.” Quaranir folded his hands into his sleeves, sighing once before fixing them both with a hard eye. “I’ve come to request your help, Dragonborn. If you will give it.”

Ayera slowly raised an eyebrow.  
“What can I do for you?”  
“Time has been broken. I am gathering a force from each Fracture to join in the mission of fixing it, before all of Nirn is torn apart.”  
“Fracture?”  
“Each separate timeline presented by the Dragon Break. They are called Fractures,” he explained, watching as Erador nodded slowly, “each timeline has its own Last Dragonborn. You are this Fracture’s figure.” Quaranir gestured vaguely to her. “I would humbly ask you lend any aid you can in helping us. I can afford you two days at most to rest and gather anything you may need.”

Ayera extended a hand and gave him a warm smile.

“We’ll see you in two days, then...”  
“Quaranir.” He gave a slight bow.  
“Quaranir.” She repeated. “Don’t keep us waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zu'u - i am  
mindaziir - college/academy  
dii kul - my son  
Paidir - high atmoran for father  
Skærstenheim - came up with this one myself!! it's basically the atmoran purgatory, but the nords didn't take the idea when their cultures kind of blended & mixed together. the word itself is in higher atmoran, although it would be the same in lower.


	5. Oh Yeah, It's All Coming Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quaranir works to recruit more manpower to the cause; cara and miraak finally get to meet tharya, but she is less than pleased with quaranir; the group plots to get prime miraak back.
> 
> hopefully this marks the beginning of longer, more in-depth chapters (this one's just shy of 4000 words). veros belongs to trailtothetruth. enjoy! comments and kudos are life! :)

“I have no reason to concern myself with the rescue of one such as him.” The masked woman replied, sitting to yank her boots on.  
“I understand your personal reservations, however, this is not strictly a rescue mission.” Quaranir tried to make it sound like he wasn’t begging, like he had everything completely under control. Like he hadn’t only assembled a force of four people. Like he wasn’t avoiding Tharya like the plague. “It is a mission to save all of Time, indeed all of Nirn before it falls utterly out of our hands. If you prefer, I would not be opposed to contacting you after he is rescued.”

He had never seen Veros beneath her mask, but from her voice he could guess she was a Mer, of one race or another. It mattered little. What mattered was that she had the finest collection of weapons of any other Dragonborn, past, future, or across Time. She had the strongest and most well-stocked armory of any other Dragonborn. What mattered was that she was focused and gods help whoever got in her way; what mattered was that Quaranir knew she could keep his little ragtag team together. If only she would agree.

Veros stood and readjusted her hood, stalking to the window of her dim room on Solstheim. The grey, drab landscape stretched endlessly on the ground and in the sky. Quaranir had never understood why, of all places, the First Dragonborn—regardless of his background, his life choices, the color of his eyes—why he chose _ here _ to resurface. _ These _ people to control. _ This _ forgotten, drowning little heap of ash and Dunmer that would be of no use to him at all in the grand picture of his much bigger conquests.  
“Tell me again, Psijic.” Veros said simply, picking her bow off its spot against the wall.  
“Of?”  
“Time.”  
“It is broken,” Quaranir rehearsed, fighting the urge to sigh or roll his eyes or give any indication he had said this multiple times before, “one of your contemporaries, I believe, has broken it. She does not yet know, but she is beginning to see the repercussions.” He raised a thin eyebrow. “Have you?”  
“Yes.” The woman huffed. “The stars.”  
“Correct.” Quaranir allowed himself a little smile. Not only was Veros the most well-equipped, she was apparently the most observant. “I am here to humbly ask your aid in fixing the Break, before the threat it presents grows out of hand.”  
“And to do that, we must save the First Dragonborn from death.”  
“Yes and no,” Quaranir tried. If he could make the details less clear, would she come? He couldn’t see her eyes but he felt them narrow on him. “We must save him for his strength and magical ability. And...I have reason to believe a companion of his—the one who broke Time to begin with—will not help us unless we do.”  
  
Veros snorted, and such a simple sound was surprisingly enough to fill Quaranir with momentary doubt.  
“So you are playing nursemaid to all the Dragonborns of the world, then, Psijic?” The woman tutted.  
“I am simply doing what I think is best for the good of the universe,” he retorted, keeping his voice calm, “as I hope you will.” She seemed to think for a minute, thoughtfully plucking her bowstring before shouldering a full quiver and taking a sword from the bed.  
“Yes and no.” She brushed by him to the door, echoing his words with an itching smugness. “Your cause is just. I believe you are doing what is right,” she gave him a staunch nod. “Once I defeat Miraak, then we will see. But I will not delay his demise any longer.” Veros wrenched the door open. “And I will not pity nor befriend those who were weak enough to save him.”

Quaranir hesitated.  
“Agreed.”

* * *

“Dragonborns, if you would.” He had returned to Artaeum less than an hour ago in the hopes that Arelda, the young girl who had only just been given her robes and he’d sent to fetch Tharya, would not have left yet. He should face Tharya himself, after all. He had made promises to her. Promises he had not kept. And he had watched her spiral downwards into a Void of her own making after Miraak’s disappearance; he had watched her announce his “death” to the College. He had watched her trudge back with a sack of ashes in hand. And still, he had not kept his promises.

But Arelda was gone, the others told him. So he sought Cara and her Miraak, the taller, paler version. Quaranir could not tell which of them, the full-blooded Atmoran or the half-Yokudan, was the outlier, and which the norm. But he knew the First Dragonborn had been little more than a laboratory experiment by Akatosh, so perhaps they were all different from each other.  
“It may not seem so, but things are progressing quite well,” Quaranir told them once they had joined him, standing in an open, circular room on the left side of Ceporah Tower. The setting sun was near blinding but he found comfort in the natural golden and pinkish hues of the light, in the large curved windows that displayed the rolling gold fields and white trees only a few storeys below. “One Dragonborn has...put her arrival on hold until she is finished with her current business. Another will arrive tomorrow, and there is one left I might speak with today. And, the one who broke Time...” he trailed off but revived himself under Cara’s inquisitive gaze, “she will be here shortly. I’ve sent one of my fellow monks to retrieve her.”  
“You won’t get her yourself?” Quaranir grimaced.  
“She would be less than pleased to see me.”

The pair seemed to nod together in mutual, if confused, understanding.  
“What is her current business? The one who will be delayed?” The question came from Miraak, and for a moment the Psijic marveled at his accent. Thick and cold, much like the Nords, but...more unique. More...primal, perhaps. More _ northern _ .  
“She is on Solstheim as we speak,” the Altmer replied uncertainly, “she is preparing to kill her own timeline’s Miraak.”  
“She’s going to kill him?” Cara frowned. Quaranir at once remembered who he was speaking to.  
“In nearly every iteration of the Last Dragonborn’s life, the First is killed.” He said slowly, watching Miraak’s pale face contort with something that wasn’t a scowl but rather...a melancholic smile. “There are only a handful of you who save him.” He eyed their connected hands. “Fewer still who allow him to remain with them. In most timelines where he is saved...he dies.” Cara’s golden skin flushed pale for a moment and she contemplated deeply about his words.  
“Is that what happened to the one who broke Time?”  
“No. She saved him, and he chose to stay. He should not be dead.”  
“Then how does he die, _ in most timelines?" _Quaranir only shook his head, wringing his fingers out of view behind his back. His lips parted to give them a truly Psijic response: vague, over-generalized, and not the answer to anything, when across the room the light wooden doors were shoved violently open.

“_Quaranir!_”

Something whistled through the air between them and soared past Cara’s ear, only to find its target by burying itself in the stone just between Quaranir’s boots. It was a spear, they saw, golden and vibrant and glowing dimly, but half of it was...a staff? “You told me you’d find a solution! It’s been a _ month!_” An angry voice echoed about the room, heavy footsteps approaching. Miraak caught Cara’s arm and pulled her aside just as a Nord woman with sandy blonde hair stalked by them, her pale eyes set on no one besides the Psijic. She opened one hand and the spear, and as it sent cracks running through the floor, it shook itself free and flew into her palm, tip aimed for the monk. “Where the _ hell _ have you been?”

“Throne-Breaker,” Quaranir cleared his throat, “if you would allow me to introduce-“

“Not interested.” She said tightly, squeezing her spear and letting it snap in like the jaws of a hunting sabre cat. Cara and Miraak flinched together, grip tightening on each other’s hands. Gods be damned if it was a trick of the light, but the newcomer seemed to be _ glowing _, a vibrant, ferocious, but dim gold. “You promised a solution. I know he’s still alive, Quaranir. I can feel him. You said you’d do something. Where’s Miraak?”

They shared a wildly confused glance.

“_Zu’u Miraak._” The Atmoran said after a moment, taking a step forward. The Nord whipped around, hope dancing behind her eyes. It was quickly extinguished. She looked him over once with a noise of disapproval.

“I’m not in the mood for games, stranger. Stay out of this.”  
“No, he _ is _ Miraak,” Cara felt her brow crease together, “but...you must be the one who broke time.”  
“Oh, **that’s** what you’ve been calling me? ‘The one responsible for this entire shitshow’? How charming,” she hissed at Quaranir, “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you, you rat bastard. You never keep your word.”  
“_This _ is the one you said would help you, _ kro?_” Another voice, deep and rich and disbelieving, came from the doorway. All four of them spun to see a man with earthy beige skin and long, braided black hair wearing fuschia robes. Miraak felt his eyes widen.  
“_Dukaan?_” He gaped.  
“I do not know you,” the Priest replied, striding into the room.  
“Yes, Dukaan, this is the useless mage _ I was counting on _ to help us. He didn’t. Looks like we’re done here,” she grabbed the Atmoran’s wrist and he obliged, and before anyone could protest they were stalking out of the room just as quickly as they’d entered, leaving a mess of emotion and confusion in their wake.  
  
“_Wait!_”

Again, they whipped around to see Quaranir, distress written into the lines of his face, his golden-green eyes sparkling with suppressed frustration and resignation. A damp silence settled over the group. Miraak stared at Dukaan. Quaranir stared at the Nord. Cara glanced between all three of them.  
“I do not understand,” Miraak was first to break the endless quiet, crossing his arms, “you say I am not Miraak.” His stormy blue eyes fell to the Nord. “Yet I am. Do you not recognize me?”  
“What the hell are you spouting?” She replied angrily. “You _ aren’t _ Miraak. Not even close.”  
“If you would allow me,” Quaranir freed his hands and extended one of them, “your necklace, Throne-Breaker.” Pale eyes narrowed on him. She held him in her cold gaze for a moment longer before reaching below her tunic and pulling out a necklace wound on twine around her neck. To their surprise the Nord woman slid the necklace off over her head, letting it fall into the Psijic’s palm with a quiet tinkle. It was a phial, Cara noted once she moved closer. A glass phial, no longer than her pinky finger, no wider, holding clear liquid. Water.

“How do you know I have this?”

“It is his,” Quaranir mused, “it was always meant to be his. Which is why we returned it to him after he threw it in the harbor.”

“What?”

“The Psijics have always been watching you, Throne-Breaker. We knew Time was breaking long before you did.” The Altmer sighed. “The First Dragonborn was always meant to possess this necklace. So no matter how many times he throws it into the harbor of Solitude, it will come back, and it will always be filled.”

Quaranir closed both hands around the necklace and then clapped them together. The room went dark for a moment, swept by a dreary wind, before the light returned. A smoky spiral rose in the center of the stone floor, swirling upwards, past Cara’s height and close to Miraak’s but not surpassing him. The smoke shifted and undulated and slowly began to take shape. Shoulders, a torso, a head. The smoke gathered colors, browns and grey and a hint of gold.

Being created before them was the hazy image of a man, dark skinned, tall, with curly brown hair finger-combed away from his strong face. Scars decorated his features. Stubble lined his jaw. Strong arms were crossed over a broad chest. A silver pendant resting on the dip between his collarbones winked in the unseen light.

And vibrant, piercing golden eyes stared straight at them like burning coals from the smoke.  
“_Mal zeymah_,” Dukaan breathed, just loud enough for them to hear.

“_That _ is who she seeks.” Quaranir sounded exasperated. “_That _ is Miraak.”

The Nord circled the smoky man in wonder, staring up at him like one would stare at a long lost relic. She paused, hesitated for a moment, before reaching up to touch his face. They watched in amazement as the stranger unraveled his arms, molten eyes moving downwards, and one wispy set of fingers stroked slowly down her cheek before dropping away.

Just as it did, the smoke billowed and vanished, the image collapsing to her feet. She took a dumbstruck step away, one hand still suspended in the air. He was gone. With the smoke, a whispering voice slithered in and out of the room like a passing breeze, with a single word imparted from unseen lips:

“_Ahtlahzey..."_

Even from a dozen feet away, Cara could feel the turmoil of emotions radiating off the Nord. Pure anger. Regret. Deep, deep loss. The intensity of her emotions nearly brought tears to Cara's eyes. The elf tried to imagine what it would be like if Miraak died. Simply up and gone one day, with no explanation. If she had no one to turn to for answers. If she were to be left alone. Forever. The very idea of losing him made tears spring to her eyes, and out of the corner of her peripheral, Miraak noticed her distress. 

"_Dii lovaas_?" he asked. 

She wiped away the tears, glancing to the blonde woman before back at the worried Atmoran in front of her. "I'm fine. But she's not." 

"That's not all."

She turned to him, sliding her much smaller hand into his own. "I love you. Never forget that."

His free hand cupped her jaw. "_Zu lokaal hi, dii lovaas._"

The Nord turned her head to them, her clear blue eyes like ice.  
“Seven months, Quaranir.” She said, her strong voice wavering. “Seven months. That was it.” The woman turned away, suppressing a shudder, trying to ignore the tantalizing familiarity of _ his _ voice spoken on a stranger’s lips. A declaration of love that was _ his _ but not hers. “And you couldn’t be bothered for one.”

* * *

They dispersed after that. The Nord and Dukaan were first to walk out. Quaranir asked if they would stay and help, but neither of them gave a reply. Miraak yearned to speak to his brother, his fellow Priest, but the man would hardly even look at him. Now it made sense. If _ that _ had been the Miraak they knew, with dark skin, dark hair, those golden eyes...they were radically different. How was that even possible? Shouldn’t he be the same across every timeline? Shouldn’t he always be _ Miraak? _ Quaranir had removed himself promptly afterwards, mumbling something about tea or vacation. It left him and Cara alone, trying together to comprehend the magnitude of what had just occurred.  
“He is...” the Atmoran was at a loss for words. Cara squeezed his arm but he only shook his head. “I cannot even think of why he is so different. He looks...” Miraak squinted. “He looks Yokudan. Golden eyes and brown skin were no traits of Atmorans. And his necklace...”  
“Which one?”  
“The pendant. It belonged to—to Vahlok. But the phial—the monk said it was destined to come into possession of _ the First Dragonborn_.” He looked down at Cara. “Does it refer to him or me? Are we not one in the same?”  
“Perhaps not,” Cara grabbed his hand, “if he’s Yokudan his parents were not the same as yours.” She watched the gears in his head turn for a moment more before smiling gently. “Try not to overthink it, darling. I’m going to go find that Nord.” She began to slip away but he grabbed for her hand, a pleading look on his face. “You aren’t having an emotional crisis, Miraak.” She chuckled gently but not unkindly. “You have to remember this isn’t our own timeline anymore. This is his. And hers,” she gestured to the door the woman had come in, “you are both the First Dragonborn. She and I are both the Last. Try not to think about it too much.”

He didn’t look convinced.

* * *

Tharya heard the footsteps approaching her from behind, the rustling of the grass and a gentle voice humming on the wind reaching her ears long before the Altmer woman made her presence known.

That had been Miraak, in the smoke. No matter how unclear the image was it was unmistakably him, his soft golden eyes peering through the haze down at her. And she’d _ touched _ him. It hadn’t felt like anything, but she could imagine the feeling of his warm skin, her fingers grazing his stubble, the soft underside of his jaw. And beyond that, he had seen her. He had acknowledged her. He had put his hand up to her face and even though it had been the cold, static feeling of magic, he had done it. He had gone through the motion. And gods, _ gods_, when his voice came from behind—_zu lokaal hi, _ I love you—everything had shattered. The fragile walls of denial she’d constructed were pulverized. The teetering bridges of hope were swept away.  
  
“I don’t think we’ve met.” The Altmer moved to sit in the tall grass beside her, looking curiously at the stave of dark wood across her lap. “My name is Carawen Direnni, but please, call me Cara.” She extended a hand. Tharya was silent for a moment.  
“Tharya.” She said quietly, shaking Cara’s hand, “Throne-Breaker, if you want.” A single dark eyebrow went up, and it was now that Tharya realized she’d never seen an Altmer with such ebony colored hair before.  
“How did you get that name?” Cara asked with a little chuckle. “Throne-Breaker. Sounds ominous.” Tharya allowed a small smile to slip past her miserable features.  
“I broke Ulfric’s throne,” she gave a little shrug, “good timing, too. If no one gave me an ominous last name in the next year I’d just have to make my own.” The Altmer laughed at that, and for a moment Tharya felt her despair begin to lighten. “I’m sorry about my...dramatic entrance. That probably didn’t make a good first impression.” Cara waved one golden hand.  
“You’re grieving,” she said, as if that explained everything. And maybe...maybe it did. “Losing someone so close to you, I can’t even imagine it.”

Sitting so close to her, the emotions Cara had felt earlier were nothing to what Tharya was giving off now. Her desperation was tangible, her sorrow cutting deeper than any knife. Cara cleared her throat and tried to block it out before it overtook her, but still the raw sadness and anger itched at the back of her mind. If she could feel it so strongly just sitting here, and if Tharya’s previous claim that she could _ feel _ Miraak’s life, even if it escaped her, was true...

They sat in silence for a while longer, the only shared sounds the scraping of her knife against the wood of the staff. It had to be at least as tall as Cara, made of beautifully rich, dark wood. A white soul gem the size of a child’s fist was fastened to one end, similar to Tharya’s staff. After the brief drought of speech, Cara peered over at her work.  
“What are you doing?” Tharya lifted the staff and blew away the wood dust.  
“Carving a hand. You?” Cara felt herself smile, but the Nord spoke true; she was, indeed, carving a hand into the opposite side of the staff, its elegant fingers closed as if holding the hilt of an unseen blade.  
“Sitting.” The elf said finally.  
“Give that a swing, tell me if it’s topheavy.” Tharya handed her the weapon and Cara stood, giving it a twirl, weighing it across her hands. Miraak’s training was coming in handy.  
“It is,” her brow knit together. Surprisingly enough, Tharya looked completely content with that. “You want it topheavy?”  
“I don’t. But he’s used to topheavy staffs,” she took it back and Cara sat again, “all Dragon Priest staffs are, because of the dragonhead carved at the top. And since his broke in the Soul Cairn, well...let’s just say this is a _ very _ late birthday present.” Something told her that Cara had no idea what the Soul Cairn was, but the elf didn’t ask.  
“You know his birthday?” Cara sounded more excited than she intended, but the possibility of finally learning Miraak’s nameday, after four thousand years, after watching him pass quietly through the months without a day of his own...it was something, at least. Tharya glanced up as the question came, her eyes landing on an approaching figure across the field.  
“Oh.” She blinked. “No, not exactly. He kind of...made his own.” She gave Cara a sheepish smile, and then gestured to the oncoming silhouette. “That anyone we know?”

The Altmer turned and craned her neck, and then smiled.  
“Miraak.” She paused for a moment before her smile faded. “My Miraak.” Together they stood to greet him, but when the pale Atmoran finally reached them, his gaze was hard and his lips turned into a frown. He looked at Tharya warily, but she only extended her hand.  
“Tharya,” she tried to sound strong, “and no, I won’t be throwing any more temper tantrums, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He nodded and shook her palm, glancing to the sky.

“Where is Dukaan?”  
“He went to find the nearest drop of alcohol. Can’t say I blame him,” the Nord sighed, and for the first time Miraak noticed the six meticulously drawn crisscrossing lines of warpaint on her face, and the scar just below her left eye. “I was about to do the same.” Miraak nodded slowly.  
  
“The Psijic has an idea,” he gestured back to the Tower, “apparently it is urgent. He would like us all to return.”  
“An idea?” Cara echoed.  
“On how to bring _ ziinmah _ back. But we must hurry.” He reached for Cara’s hand. “It can only be done tonight.”

Tharya’s grip tightened on the wooden staff.  
“Then what are we waiting for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zu'u miraak - i am miraak  
kro - mage  
mal zeymah - little brother  
ahtlahzey - arch-mage  
dii lovaas - my song  
zu lokaal hi - i love you  
ziinmah - word of my own making, combined "ziinin" (same) and "zeymah" (brother). means twin as in identical male twins, or male doppleganger. "briinmah" would be identical female twins/female doppleganger. "my" is usually implied rather than spoken in dragonspeech, so it's really like "my doppleganger/my twin". i'm going to say this is what Miraak 2 calls Prime Miraak


	6. The Dragon's Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quaranir puts his plan to bring miraak back into action, which results in a visit from an unlikely guest and a dramatic entrance from the first dragonborn. if you haven't read thewolfwhowaited's Ven Aak Hi you SHOULD! it will explain a lot!
> 
> (aka, miraak's back BABEY)

“Do you feel alright, _ dii strun? _ ” Miraak’s voice drifted down to her ear, soft and inquisitive. It had to be the third time he’d asked in the last half hour alone. They were watching Quaranir set wards and candles around a huge ritual circle that was illuminated only by the magelight Tharya had cast. Strange...at least one of the moons had to be out, but the sky was a dark and faceless blanket with only a smattering of stars.  
“Yes,” Cara replied, “why do you ask?” Without a word, Miraak lifted their conjoined hands to show her white knuckles, her fingernails boring into his skin, her grip steel around his fingers. With a small gasp she immediately let go, wrenching her hand away. Little red crescent marks were left between his knuckles. The moment she let go an intense feeling of rage washed over her, but it left as soon as it came. Why...why was she _ angry? _ There was nothing around at the moment to trigger such fury. Nothing at all. If anything, she should be at peace.

Cara strapped her arms around herself, unwilling to risk the chance of hurting Miraak again, no matter how minor it would be. Carefully she began to sort out her emotions, ridding herself of such baseless anger, shedding it like a second skin. It made her shiver, but soon enough the fury slunk away, back to wherever it had come from.  
“I am sorry I did not recognize you earlier, _ zeymah_.” The voice belonged to Dukaan, the man who’d come with Tharya. He was coiling the end of one of his braids around his finger as he spoke, occasionally smoothing his fuschia robes with one hand.  
“There’s no need to apologize,” Miraak looked over her head to the other Atmoran, who, Cara noticed, was even _ taller _ than her partner. “He and I are...very different.” She caught a glimpse of a Dragon Priest mask hanging on the man’s belt. It looked just like the other masks from Solstheim—akin to Miraak’s old mask in base shape, but this one seemed to be made of silver.

Cara found herself completely tuning out of Miraak and Dukaan’s conversation, focusing instead on Tharya. Her tunic, more specifically. Its forest green, its design on the back, facing her: the Eye of the College, the symbol, embroidered in rich grey thread. The College. Tharya must be a mage there—a student, perhaps a teacher. The Eye stared at Cara, enticing her, forcing bile from her stomach into her throat, and just when she thought she’d throw up a single word forced its way from her gut:

“_A__htlahzey._”

At her sides, Dukaan and Miraak paused.

“_Dii strun?_” The First Dragonborn looked at her. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“...yes,” Cara said feebly as all the energy in her body seemed to drain away. As if that one word had taken all her willpower to get out. “I’m alright.”

“Tell me more about this ritual, Quaranir.” The steady _ click _ of Tharya’s spear against stone filled the night as she circled the huge summoning area. It was scattered with swirling and jagged glyphs, some of which she recognized and some she did not. “Why can it only be done tonight?”  
“Look at the sky, Throne-Breaker.” The Psijic finished drawing another ward before looking upwards himself. “There is no moon tonight.”  
“Then what’s that?” She gestured with her spear to a blue spot on the dark blanket of night, no bigger than a child’s fist. Quaranir frowned but didn’t reply.  
“Tomorrow, the sun and moons will be in the sky together. It is called the Dragon’s Dawn, and a phenomena like it only occurs during Dragon Breaks.” He crouched to paint another ward onto the old stone. “The night before the Dragon’s Dawn, the sheet of magic between the waking world, the world between, and the world after is immensely thinned. Mages may feel their power tripled in such a time period. If we are to bring the First Dragonborn back, the easiest way would be to do so tonight.”

“So...what exactly are we summoning in this circle?”

“Tharya?” The Nord turned to find Cara watching her, and moved away from Quaranir to prompt her for more. “I want to talk to you about something you said earlier.” Together the women stepped off to the side, just outside of earshot from either the Psijic or the Atmorans. “About your Miraak. You said you can feel him, yes? I might be able to help."

Tharya's brows knitted together in confusion. Cara glanced over at Miraak, who was eyeing them curiously, asking her a question with his eyes. "I've been blessed by Mara. I'm a rather powerful empath, that's why I'm attuned to the emotions of a person or a room." She explained. She looked up at Miraak as he approached, Dukaan trailing behind. "I try to get Miraak to talk to me all the time about what’s he feeling.” She shot him a look. “I can sense it, though you have your mental walls set so high it's harder to get a reading off of you. But you," she looked back to Tharya. "I can feel your emotions right now, if I focus on them, as if they were my own."

Tharya was quiet for a long moment, examining her spear as if it had become the most interesting thing in the world. Finally she looked up, her brow creased in anguish.

“I...don’t know exactly what to say,” she shifted her weight, “how could you talk to him if he’s not..._here? _ Like before?”

"If there's even a wisp of him here, connected to you, I might be able to find him, if you're willing."

"Yes.” The Nord nodded once. “Anything."

Cara pulled in a slow breath and nodded, closing her eyes for a moment. Miraak and Dukaan took a few steps away to allow her to work. The elf opened her eyes again, and asked for the Nord's hand.

"Keep your mind open, please."

Cara closed her eyes again and took a few more steady breaths, focusing on the woman in front of her.

There was a ghost of a presence behind the Nord, nearly not there, but Cara felt them. Briefly, the anger from before washed over her, but this time it was more intense. More fiery. And it wasn’t just anger, but...despair. Sorrow. Remorse. When she blinked she was suddenly surrounded by darkness, a long and expansive darkness that stretched in every direction. In front of her was the man from before, tall, with brown-bronze skin and fierce eyes the color of blood-stained gold.

“You.” The dark man growled, releasing her shoulders. She didn’t even know he had grabbed her. “You are an empath, yet you do not respond to my many appearances.”

“I’m not trained,” Cara said defensively, taking a step away. Miraak scoffed and crossed his arms, that golden gaze fixing on her.

“I have been trying to channel through you all evening. Instead you nearly spill your guts everywhere.” His lip curled. “We are lucky I was even able to compel you to Tharya.”  
“What...what?”  
“You may not be trained, but you are easy to control.” Cara felt her lips pull into a frown.

“You’re a very angry person.”

“And you are barely an empath,” he shot back, “but why have you come _ here _? My goal was to perhaps return myself in some form to Nirn, as earlier.”

“I came because Tharya let me use her as a conduit. She said she could feel your presence lingering around her—I wanted to try and draw that _ out. _ I suppose, though, you drew me _ in_.”

The Atmoran’s features shifted at that name, and for a moment he looked beyond lost and upset.

“Very well.” He said carefully, eyeing Cara. “I suppose I should thank you.”

Before she could even reply the man disappeared, the darkness around her disappeared, and Tharya’s clear eyes were looking expectantly at her. But just behind the Nord was a wispy black figure. He felt so familiar, yet not. His soul burned white-hot like Miraak's, and she supposed it would, considering this man was Miraak, just not her own.

She let go of Tharya's hand, clearing her throat and wetting her lips.

"He's here. I can feel him. Looming over you, protective, much like he does. " Her violet gaze flickered to the blond Atmoran a few feet away. “If there was any time to do something...it’s now.”

A thick silence settled between them as Quaranir approached. The Psijic gave them all a single, castaway glance before motioning towards the ritual circle. Dukaan asked what the ritual would entail, but was afforded no answer. When Cara looked again, the ghastly form of Miraak hovering around Tharya was gone.

Quaranir began to chant something, slow and rhythmic. His voice moved through the words like a boat through water, crescendoing and fading away, swelling, rising to meet notes that soared and ones that crawled low. It filled each of them with an odd sense of mystery, cloaked them all in a heavy blanket of enigmatic exhaustion. Gradually, the glyphs and symbols in the large circle began to glow a gentle red. Clouds of pitch black gathered in the sky, blotting out the stars, swallowing up the large blue orb just above them. The stretching fields of grass swayed in a breeze that none of them felt. And unexpectedly, with a deafening _ crack _, the skies split to allow a single bolt of crimson lightning downwards, striking the very center of the circle.

Quaranir’s voice came to a halt just as it did, and the air crackled and snapped with electricity. Wiry fingers of lightning arched through the air. 

“Good_ gods!_” A hovering black spirit stretched its phantom limbs in the center of the circle. “Nine thousand years...will give you _ such _ a crick in the neck!” Tharya and Dukaan shared a glance. “Now, before I can speak to you meddling kids, I have to, just for a moment, take one of your bodies.” Each of them tried to move immediately but their feet were frozen to the ground below. The black spirit wafted like a foul stench out of the circle, examining each of them in turn.

"Nord," the black spirit moseyed towards Tharya, burning eyes giving her a once over, "yuck. I possessed a Nord last time, but he was no fun. All animal skins and honor and, you know, Nord stuff."

Cara found herself able to grab Miraak's hand as the spirit walked towards them, barely sparing her a glance before their eyes settled on Miraak. An overdramatic gasp left their unseen lips.  
“Altmer,” the spirit shook their head, patting Miraak’s bicep, “sorry, girl.” Without another word the black mist dissipated and shot into the First Dragonborn’s mouth with an unholy shriek.  
“Miraak!” Cara cried, but he never gave an answer.  
After a tense moment of silence, Miraak groaned, stretched, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“_Atmoran,_” he said with a widening grin, flicking his braid over his shoulder, giving his broad shoulders and excited shimmy, “it’s been forever since I possessed one of _ these _ hunks!”  
“Psijic!” Dukaan called, and Quaranir seemed to flinch out of a trance at the Priest’s voice. “What is the meaning of this?” The mage blinked a few times, and then sighed.  
  
“This?” The Altmer fixed his gaze on a flamboyant Miraak. “This...well, you can introduce yourselves. This is Death.”

* * *

“_Death._” Dukaan murmured quietly, crossing his arms. “I should have guessed _ you _ would be the only one we could hope to bargain with.”  
“Yes, you really should’ve.” Death, inhabiting Miraak’s body, gave a silly laugh. “Your broody boy _ is _ dead, after all.”  
“He shouldn’t be, though,” Tharya stood from the edge of the ritual circle where she’d sat, twirling her spear thoughtfully on her fingertips. “He was alive for months. Seven months.”  
“Hmm, even after Harkon?” Death quipped. Tharya ignored it.  
“You’re going to have to give me a good reason for taking him like that,” the Last Dragonborn warned, “you won’t like either of us when we’re angry. I assure you, Miraak doesn’t let the barriers of death stop him for anything.”

“Oh, no no, Last Dragonborn, _ you _ won’t like me when _ I’m _ angry.” Death advanced and grabbed her chin, forcing her gaze upwards before tossing her face out of his grip. “You should be giving me one reason to bring your big Yokudan cuddly-wuddly cutiepie back. By all accounts, by all rules of nature, he’s dead. Gone. There’s nothing you can do to change that, not even you, big bad Tharya Throne-Breaker.”  
“I’ll give you a damn good reason, but I don’t need to. He’s _ my _ big Yokudan cuddly-wuddly cutiepie, you crazy bastard.” Tharya set her speartip against the stone. “_Not _ yours.” 

Death grunted something in a foreign language and moved away, crossing Miraak’s arms.  
“Your curse word of choice there would’ve been _ bitch_, actually.” Death turned to them. “I **am** a she. Though all your art and literature seems to portray me as a grouchy, bony old man. Not sure where that came from.” She shrugged one broad shoulder. “But I’ll bite, Throne-Breaker. I’ll give you a couple reasons why I’m not going to bring lover boy back.” Tharya grimaced, her grip tight on her staff. Death shifted her weight onto one hip and tapped her toes against the ground.

“The Brother’s Prophecy is fulfilled—finally,” she scoffed aside, “took a while for that doozy to come around. And as far as I’m concerned, he’s lived out his purpose in life.”

“His _ purpose?_”

“You know, rebel against the Dragon Cult, get tortured by Hermaeus Mora for thousands of years? That purpose? Except, he was supposed to die. _ You _ were supposed to kill him,” she whirled and aimed a finger at Tharya, “you too,” and Cara. “Was the message not clear? I’ll never understand that. But now,” Miraak-not-Miraak gave a lazy shrug. “You guys screwed everything up. He wasn’t even supposed to live this long. But, I guess,” the possessed Atmoran hit his chest, “neither was this one. Give me one good reason I should give him back to you.”

Cara's violet eyes hardened, sparks jumping off her, as she took a few aggressive steps towards the creature that had possessed the man she loved. 

"I hope you plan on giving _ my _Miraak back after your little jaunt," the anger in her Voice made the sky crack and rumble, storm clouds pushing through the darkness overhead. “Auri-El himself won’t be able to stop me from obliterating you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, please_. _ Auri-El, Shmauri-El. List any pantheon, any god, they can’t do anything to stop me.” Death flicked Miraak’s blond braid over his shoulder, patting Cara’s head. “It’s not you I need to hear, anyway.” With a snap of his fingers Cara’s lips were snapped shut, as if glued. “Now _ you._” He sauntered to Tharya and slung an arm around her shoulders. “_You’re _ the lady of the hour. Please, do say something. I haven’t had a good argument in ages.”

Tharya took a few steps away, her eyes fixed on the ritual circle. The glowing had faded, but the marks inside seemed clearer than before.  
“But don’t say something about true love,” Death clasped her hands and batted her eyes, and then made a disgusted noise, “I’ve heard too many of those speeches.”  
“I wasn’t going to.” Tharya grumbled. “I want him back because you have no _ real _ reason to take him. Even if he’s outlived his usefulness. Haven’t I? I was supposed to kill Alduin, but that was it. Maybe I wasn’t even supposed to survive Alduin, but here I am. And here he _ was_. Don’t tell me he’s just a cog in the Wheel of Time, I’ve heard too many of _ those _ speeches.” Tharya squeezed her spear and tucked it in its minimized form into her belt. “When he truly breathes his last I won’t fight you. But only after he’s lived his life. Only after he’s experienced the world, like he deserves to.” Death breathed on her nails and buffed them against Miraak’s robes.  
  
“Life is a sister of mine. She’d be amenable to your cause,” stormy blue eyes. “Life, Death, and Time. The three of us have existed since the dawn of the universe, since the Elven gods walked Nirn. Since the land separated to create the Five Continents.” Death touched Miraak’s braid. “We have seen every Dragon Break that has ever assaulted the Fabric. We have been to every Fracture ever created by those Breaks, but never, _ never_...” she looked at each of their ragtag team in turn, “never have we seen such an assembly of Dragonborn in one spot. With more to come, I hear.” Death moved towards Tharya and extended a hand. “You have a lot of things in store, Throne-Breaker. As do you all.” A little grin touched her lips. “I was never going to _ not _ give the handsome Yokudan back to you. I just wanted to see how hard you’d fight.”

With a gleam in her eye Death began to seep out of Miraak’s pale skin, oozing from his nostrils, his ears, his mouth as she spoke.  
“I hope it takes a while, Throne-Breaker, but I do hope we meet again.” Tharya chortled.  
“I hope it takes a damn long while.” With a choke from her host body Death shot from the man and back into the ritual circle, which roared to life with magical energy. A sheer orange barrier went up, and with another flash of red lightning Death raced back into the blackened sky.

“Miraak!” Cara burst forward to the pale heap of Atmoran on the ground, pulling him into her arms as he groaned and muttered in Dovahzul.  
“I’m alright,” he croaked, “I’m alright.” A harsh wind began to blow outwards from the swirling barrier, whipping at their hair and clothes. Quaranir staggered backwards from the circle, and Dukaan grabbed him by the arm to keep him steady. The phial around Tharya’s neck was also enveloped by the intense orange glow, floating upwards from the hem of her tunic and pulling her towards the circle.  
“Don’t touch it!” Quaranir shouted above the shrieking wind. Lightning danced through the sky, thunder deafened them from above. Through the barrier Tharya could barely see the silhouette of a skeleton, bones forming from midair. The essence creating them was being pulled from the swirling magic surrounding the circle itself, being stripped away and then forming into raw muscles and tendons over the bones, melding into flesh. Long, strong arms and legs became evident through the fleeting glances she could steal. The glow intensified and she was forced to block the light from her eyes.

Miraak grunted as the wind forced his feet back another handful of inches. Beside him Cara raised a hand to shield her eyes from the blinding orange light, but surprisingly enough, the magic stayed contained to the ritual circle. 

_ ”You are no longer my brother. You are a monster of your own making.” _

A voice that belonged to no one here slipped like a knife in the dark into his head, and just as quickly disappeared. Who...?

_ ”You have always thought yourself too good for me, dii kul.” _ The image of an older man with a soft face and long silvery hair assaulted him just behind the eyes. _ Who _ was speaking to him?

“Quaranir!” Tharya’s voice rose in urgency above the windy roar of the circling orange energy. “What the hell is going on?!”

“The magic is rebounding off another!” The Psijic shouted back, and Miraak caught a glimpse of the Altmer’s eyes through the storm of magical energy in the circle. “You must block it out!”

_ ”I will only be satisfied when I am the one to send you to the Void, brother.” _ A crushing pain in his ribs made him clutch at his robes but it just as easily subsided. Cara yelled something but her voice was drowned out by another.  
_ “You couldn’t save him, mal zeymah, but you have no control over the prophecies of Time.” _ That was...Dukaan’s face. His voice. But Dukaan...he was standing a ways to the left, arms up to break the treacherous wind coming from the circle.

Across the pavilion the reanimated Miraak was suddenly attacked by an onslaught of memories that...weren’t his own. He wasn't in his body, he knew, but the pain in his chest, the blood in his mouth he felt was real. He looked up through eyes not his own, and above him, he saw the _ fahliil_, the empath, sweat dotting her brow, the bright golden light of her healing spells trying to save his life, her own life slipping away and she was forcing his body to survive. 

His vision changed, and he was on a horse, the _ fahliil _ beside him, the sun glinting off of her hair, a smile on her face, a warmth blooming in his chest like he had only felt around one other before. 

It changed again, this time, he was in a pitch black room, and someone was kissing and sucking on his neck. His actions were not his own, but he pulled the figure back, the _ fahliil _ again, this time though, he saw fangs protrude from her lips, hunger for his blood in her eyes as he pinned her to the wall. 

Screams that shook him to his very core echoed and cascaded around him, making his blood run cold.

_ No_, Miraak clenched his fists, ignoring the feel of raw muscle and sinew beneath his skeletal fingers, _ no, this is not me. _ He reached out in the magical energy around him, searching, searching...and there she was.

_ Have you missed me, dii lokaal? _ A rich, accented baritone echoed around Tharya’s head, prying her hands away from the front of her face and forcing her eyes forward. He was there, she was sure of it. She could feel him, stronger and closer than ever.  
“Good gods, yes, you bastard.” Tharya laughed aloud, taking another step towards the barrier.

_ Good. I have missed you. Come closer. _  
“Quaranir said not to touch this damn barrier!” She shouted over the noise. 

_ You have never doubted I will protect you, ahtlahzey, would you start now? _  
“Oh, shut up.” The barrier whisked an errant tear off her cheek. “I don’t want to get torn to pieces by this thing.” To her surprise, the dark outline of a hand pressed itself abruptly against the orange wall.  
_ It will not harm you. It is...me, to some extent. My essence. Trust in me as you always have, dii fil. _

Quaranir watched in horror as the Last Dragonborn’s figure was sucked into the orange light, and she vanished from view.  
“No!” He shouted, shaking Dukaan free. “No! Tharya! Don’t touch the barrier!” His words were swallowed by an explosion of blinding magic, the shockwave sending ripples through the ground like a rock thrown into a still pond. It flattened all of them against the ground, the sound of shrill and faraway bells ringing in their ears. 

Dukaan was first to struggle to his feet, wrapping his hands around Cara’s arm and pulling her up, then Miraak.  
“Up, up, _ zeymah_. Is anyone hurt?” Quaranir coughed into his sleeve behind the trio, his eyes falling on the ritual circle. A dense cloud of dust was settling around it. The First and Last Dragonborn were locked in a tight embrace. At first glance, Death had returned _him_ to them naked as the day he was born, and quickly Quaranir flung his gaze away, holding one hand up to block out the sight. But as he peered back between his fingers, cloth was appearing in the air, shreds of it coming together seamlessly to create his clothes. Miraak’s cool grey robes fluttered in the dying wind, the rest of his boots crawling snugly over his toes, the handful of faint scars on his exposed arms seemingly _ appearing _ on his skin. The last of his flesh, knitting together as he was returned to the world of the living. 

“I missed you so much, you big handsome idiot.” Tharya mumbled into his shoulder, unable to wipe the smile off her face as Miraak ran his fingers gently through her hair, squeezing her against him with his free arm. His golden eyes flicked open, falling on Dukaan and the three unfamiliar faces staring at them from just outside the ritual circle. The Last Dragonborn pressed a kiss to his arm.  
“I missed you as well, _ dii fil_.” He pressed his lips to her scalp and then looked up again. “It is good to be back.” 

Behind them, the sun and moons began to peek over the horizon, framed by a sky of furious red and orange and pink. The colors of fire. The colors of the Dragon’s Dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah miraak is totally wearing sleeveless robes (it's summer for them anyway) you can't stop me
> 
> zeymah - brother  
dii strun - my storm  
dii kul - my son  
fahliil - elf  
dii lokaal - my love  
dii fil - my star


	7. Starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miraak lets the squad revel in his intellect; quaranir retrieves the last piece of the puzzle, who bring some surprising news; not all is well for elenwen and ondolemar.

Before them was an ivory-cased Elder Scroll, an amethyst gem embedded in the offwhite material, winking in the conjoined light of two moons and a sun. The ivory had been painted a pale gradient strawberry, the color of fresh blood at the top that had devolved into white at the bottom. Tharya covered a yawn in her fist for what felt like the millionth time that morning. Dukaan, Cara, and both Miraaks all looked equally as tired.  
“Here you are,” Quaranir said as he pushed the door open and reentered the room, holding a massive royal blue tome in his hand. On the cover was a silver four-pointed star. “They were saved many hundreds of years ago by monks who did not wish to the see the culture and advancements of the Atmorans fall to ruin,” he eyed the three men, “there is a vault of preserved relics I would be more than happy to show you. I believe this is your duty, now, First Mage.” Quaranir handed the giant book off to Miraak, who examined it with a starstruck look in his eyes, his fingers tracing the metal ornament.   
“_Fil Grundde. _ The Star Charts,” he murmured, setting the book down beside the Elder Scroll.   
“And that—that is the Brother’s Prophecy. Prophecy of the Brothers, if you prefer,” Quaranir gestured to the Scroll. “I must leave you soon, but you are not entirely without guidance. First Mage,” he met Miraak’s golden eyes across the room, “I leave explaining the manner of this Dragon Break in your hands. Your theories, after all,” he eyed Tharya, “are correct.”

Without a word he took a step back and made a vague gesture for them to continue.  
  
“Gods, I need a nap,” Tharya groaned, slumping onto the stiff sofa near the large windows, batting at one of the curtains that billowed in the breeze. “And a drink.”   
“Are those really the Star Charts?” Cara interrupted, reaching for the book. Miraak slid it just out of her reach.   
“_Geh_. And they are not for untrained hands.” He shot her a look, and then the pale Atmoran at her side. In a slow, gentle movement, Miraak turned the cover, sifting through the first few pages. Each slice of paper was hardly thicker than a hair, translucent, and covered in flowing writing in a foreign tongue. Other than the handful of tears and chips, the Charts were remarkably well preserved. Cradling the book to him as one would hold an infant, he hoisted it onto one arm and continued to skip through pages until he opened to a dark map of the cosmos. It spanned more than two pages, Tharya saw, as the paper on the right side seemed to be folded over multiple times. Sparks of dark magic danced around his fingertips as the First Dragonborn pressed his palm to the crease between pages. When he lifted it again, the map had been condensed into a tiny black ball in his hand. He threw it up into the air and the map exploded outwards, filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, coating everything in a misty darkness. In the center was the sun, and below it hovered two words; one in Dovahzul and another in Higher Atmoran.

“The skies have not changed in four thousand years,” Dukaan mused, surveying the map as Miraak continued to flip through the Star Charts.  
“And because of that, we may use even an Atmoran map to show what is happening today.” Another ball of magic that he tossed directly into the center of the map burst into a sphere of blue light, burning brighter than any other star they could see. Its glow and size rivaled even that of the sun. “Even as the stars are being stolen from the night sky, this one has only just begun to appear. _ This _ is Mnemoli the Blue.” Miraak wandered through the center of the map, circling Mnemoli, giving it a scrutinizing look. “It is related to un-time events such as the one we are experiencing now,” he peered at the blue dot, “it appeared when the Tongues banished Alduin, as well as during the Middle Dawn and the Warp in the West.”   
“Alright, I’ll bite. Is it a star?” Tharya chirped.   
“Yes. The Atmorans call it _ Andra Aurin_, the Second Sun. But it is a star. Should this Break continue long enough, it will become visible through all twenty-four hours of the day, whether the sun is up or not. And, hypothetically...” he faltered.   
“Swallow the sky,” his counterpart put in, crossing his arms and wading through the map. “Should Mnemoli and the Break go unchecked, we have no idea what will happen. During the Middle Dawn, it is said Mnemoli blotted out the Sun and moons.” A foul silence settled over the group.

Quaranir cleared his throat finally, moving towards the oak table in the middle of the room.  
“My time is short, I have other matters to attend. I believe you should look at this,” he gestured the Elder Scroll but didn’t touch it, “the Prophecy of the Brothers.” Quaranir looked uneasy while he handed the Elder Scroll to Miraak. His paler counterpart and Dukaan leaned in. “It is...notorious. Most who have even held it have met...” he paused, searching for the accurate words. “...grotesque ends.” Miraak stilled for a moment before turning the Scroll in his hands so the red gem embedded into the ivory casing winked at him. It was beautiful but dull, the color of drying blood.

It looked just like the stone in the hilt of his sword.

“It is also one of the least informative prophecies ever written.” Quaranir took a handful of measured steps away and let the three Atmorans examine the Scroll. “As if it was not truly meant to come true. But now...” the Psijic regarded all three men with curiosity. “Now, I believe, it is less cryptic than before. Please, open it.”

Deftly the First Dragonborn pushed the casing open, and before any of them could speak a clamorous wind shot out of the Scroll, accompanied by an unholy shrieking. The map vanished on the wind and shot back into the Star Charts, which snapped shut. Taking its place were three murky figures who undulated and spiraled for a moment before bursting into shape. They looked almost _ alive _, all three of them, and the only way to tell they weren’t was that two of their mirror images were standing across the room, shocked. A strong Voice that shook the room began to shout down on them:

_ As the Fabric is torn and Time has been shattered between the Three, _

_ As the Light has been returned by grace of golden gods, _

_ As the sky is pulled asunder and bleeds an endless dark, _

_ As the First and Last converge at the End of Time, _

_ So too shall the Brothers meet to share the final battle. _

_ As the unwritten is changed and written erased, _

_ So too shall the Brothers meet to spill the final blood_.

Tharya clamped both hands over her ears as dust scattered from the ceiling, the very foundations of Artaeum seeming to tremble until the voice stopped. Even as everything rattled with the force, she could clearly see the three figures who had been summoned by the Scroll: Miraak, standing in the center with his arms crossed. Vahlok on his right, one hand wrapped around his sword hilt. And Dukaan to his left, leaning on his staff. Just as the booming voice vanished so too did the image, bursting into shimmering dust. A loud _ snap _ echoed throughout the room as the Scroll snatched its parchment back, coiling it up, and slammed the ivory casing closed.

Cara pushed herself off the floor, glancing between the three Atmorans, the Psijic, and the Nord across the room.  
“What...what was _ that? _”

* * *

“Mmph. I wonder when that Psijic will come back,” Ayera murmured into the arm beneath her head, tracing a finger over the roughspun sheets. Erador’s hand combed gently through her snowy hair, crimped and wavy from staying in braids for so long.   
“It’s been just about two days,” he murmured, tucking both arms around her and snuggling into her neck, pulling the blankets closer. “He should be around today. He’ll be lucky to get me out of bed, though.” 

Ayera felt her eyelids begin to droop all over again, the soothing motion of Erador stroking her hair setting her to sleep quicker than she would’ve thought. By the sound of it, he was lapsing back into a half-slumber as well, his breathing slow and even. A sudden _ shriek _ from the foot of the bed made them both jolt upright, scrambling for weapons. A black bird crowed at them again, wings fluttering as it jumped from the bedframe and flew clumsily to rest on Erador’s head. The Altmer groaned, struggling to unclasp the little cylinder attached to the bird’s leg. No doubt this had to be a message from one of his Thalmor contacts, although information from the friends he’d left in the order after deserting them were few and far between. Their letters were coming even slower as of late, and he knew enough to not think much of it, but it ate at him nonetheless.   
  
“E. That creep Ondolemar is back, but I thou ght he died. He’s plotting something big, he keeps talking about the “others” and the “fractures”. Talking about causing something called a _ Dragon Break_. And that everything is “going well”. I’ll investigate. C.” Erador read aloud, allowing Ayera to press herself against his shoulder. The bird screeched again and they both groaned. “Ondolemar? He was dead last I heard.” deep green eyes surveyed the thin paper, the wiry writing.   
“He was killed in Markarth by the Stormcloaks,” the woman at his side supplied, laying down again. “I thought dead people stayed that way nowadays.”   
“Well, Psijics are appearing out of thin air nowadays, too, so I don’t know what’s real.” Erador pushed the bird off his head and it landed on the bedpost as he sat back against the headboard.   
  
“That is wise of you, Thalmor.”

Ayera narrowed her eyes across the room at Quaranir.  
“I don’t enjoy the amount of jump scares we’re having this morning,” she said quietly. Quaranir gave a gentle bow as an apology.   
“The time has come. The others are all assembled—they wait upon you, only.” The Last Dragonborn spared her partner a look, but he only shrugged. “You gave your word,” the Psijic reminded, not as gently as he could’ve. “There is no turning away from this, Dragonborn.”   
“Give us just a minute. And then we’ll go.”

* * *

Artaeum was just as beautiful as Ayera remembered it to be. Ceporah Tower glittered and winked in the early morning. Quaranir led them through winding halls that were illuminated by gentle white light, silky window drapes reaching out to tickle them as they passed. Quaranir said nothing more to them, walking just an arm’s length before Ayera. Erador scanned the landscape outside and the building as they passed through, and when they came to a set of large, pale wooden doors he spared a glance to the Last Dragonborn beside him. She seemed enraptured with Artaeum all over again, but he couldn’t shake the odd feeling of dread that hung over his shoulders. When he peered out one the windows, he saw why.

“Why are the moons out?” The Psijic turned to give him a look.  
“All will be explained shortly.”

The doors were pushed open by some unseen force and abruptly a roomful of eyes turned on them.  
“Dragonborns. Priest,” Quaranir bowed towards a ridiculously tall man in fuschia and black robes who gave him a low nod. “These are our final companions. There may be others, but for now, this will be our...group.” He ushered Erador and Ayera into the room. “First Mage, if you would, repeat your knowledge to them, before introductions are made.” A tall man with dark, Redguard-toned skin and fierce golden eyes cleared his throat, gaining their attention.   
“Depending on what the Psijic told you, you know the current state of Time.”   
“Broken,” Ayera nodded. “Go on.”   
“It is indeed broken,” his voice was deep, blanketed in a thick northern accent which didn’t seem Nordic and didn’t make much sense by the color of his skin, “though what broke it remains to be seen. The stars are beginning to disappear from the sky, but I’m sure you have noticed.” The comment made a Nord woman with black warpaint roll her pale eyes. “Mnemoli the Blue has also appeared. A Magna-Ge star related to un-time events such as this.”

He fell quiet and crossed his strong arms, seemingly done talking. Quaranir spared him a withering glance before stepping forward again, gesturing to another Altmer woman with ebony hair and the Nord.  
“Last Dragonborn, I would have you meet your counterparts first. Carawen Direnni-”   
“Cara, please.” The Altmer smiled.   
“-and Tharya Throne-Breaker. This is Dukaan,” the Priest smiled kindly at them.   
“ _ Drem Yol Lok_.” He rumbled.   
“And this is Miraak.” Quaranir motioned to a pale and blond man standing beside Cara. “This, however, is...also Miraak.” He gestured now to the shorter, darker figure beside Tharya, whose golden gaze bored into them like hot metal. Erador felt his brow scrunch together.   
“How...how is it they are _ both _ Miraak?” Ayera asked after a brief moment of confused silence. “There is only one First Dragonborn.”   
“You remember the Fractures I spoke of?” Quaranir looked like an exhausted parent. “They are each from different Fractures.” The mage crossed the room and planted himself beside the dark-skinned Dragonborn, placing a golden hand on his shoulder. Dark eyebrows knitted together and a hard glare turned on him; slowly the Psijic lifted his hand away. “_This _ Miraak, and _ this _ Last Dragonborn—this is whose timeline you are all currently in, since this one experienced the most powerful consequences, and also, perhaps, the source of the Dragon Break.”   
“Yes, and _ perhaps _ it is my fault. Like you’ve been telling everyone.” Tharya spoke up, frowning.

Erador raised an eyebrow.  
“I thought the Thalmor were _ perhaps _ responsible the Break,” he said aloud. All eyes turned on him once again, with such force he almost wanted to step back.   
“..._what? _”

* * *

“I cannot believe this.” Mirabelle Ervine threw her hands up in frustration. “The Arch-Mage is gone. _ Again_.” She breezed by Onmund and Sofie, stalking out of Tharya’s quarters and towards the spiral staircase. “And that priest gone with her. And did she tell anyone she was leaving? _ No_.” Onmund cleared his throat quietly. “What was that?” Mirabelle spun on him.   
“Nothing, Master Wizard, only that...how can we be certain she left?” The Nord asked, earning a nod from Sofie. “The First Mage vanished nearly a month ago. Perhaps she...shares his fate?”   
“_Ugh. _ First Mage. Ridiculous title,” Mirabelle crowed, “_I _ am the Master Wizard here. This _ First Mage _ has no business gaining a title he did not work a day in his life for. If all we had to do was share the Arch-Mage’s bed to earn respect, every one of us would be named _ First Mage _ .”   
“Master Ervine!” Onmund gaped. “How could you say that? The First Mage is-”   
“A freeloader. And now the Arch-Mage is gone. That girl could barely stay put for more than a month.” Mirabelle clicked her tongue as they descended into the Hall of the Elements, where Tolfdir, Brelyna, J’zargo, and some apprentices were waiting.   
  
“She left.” A collective groan went up from the assembled group.   
“If the Arch-Mage does not intend to run the College, why did she accept the position in the first place?” Tolfdir crowed. “It is a stain on the College’s increasingly good name.”   
“I agree,” Mirabelle sang, “and I do not think we should put up with it any longer.”   
“_How _ can you _ know _ the Arch-Mage has not disappeared like the First Mage? You cannot know! She could be dead, and here you are sitting around like a couple old birds tarnishing her life!” Onmund yelled. A tense silence pushed its way into the Hall and all eyes fell on him. “The Arch-Mage could be dead! And you will not even mourn for her. You refuse to see all the good she has done for the College,” veins jumped in his neck as he continued, “she and the First Mage are the _ only _ reason Winterhold does not hate us and the College has prospered!” He looked at J’zargo and Brelyna, who seemed to be the only ones nodding in agreement.   
  
“You are all animals,” Onmund sighed, “and if you cannot relieve yourselves of your stubbornness and pride, then this institution is one I am no longer interested in being part of.” He narrowed his eyes on Mirabelle. “I will continue to search for an explanation to Tharya and the First Mage’s disappearance, and those of you who wish to join me may. The rest of you...” he crossed his arms. “I hope this place falls into the Sea.”

* * *

“Ondolemar. You are late.”

The Altmer hid a sneer behind his passive features, clasping his hands behind his back and bowing slightly to the older elf standing at the door.  
“My apologies, Emmisary. Perhaps if we had captured the Dragonborns by now I could’ve use their powers to clear the weather.”   
“You admit you are of lesser power than they,” Elenwen eyed him up and down, “how...unsettling.”

The two Thalmor looked across the stone room to the glowing circle in the center. A vortex of magical energy and wisps of Time itself, the circle lit the room with a faint blue glow. Eight of the best Thalmor mages knelt, heads bowed, with strings of magic shooting out of them to perpetuate the spin of the whirlpool. Suddenly the blue became an angry red, and the circle broke form to lash out like a whip at one of the mages, who fell silently to the stone floor.  
“What is happening?” Ondolemar asked, alarm in his voice, his hands tightening around one another.   
“Time is a vicious thing, as we have discovered.” Elenwen gestured to the seven mages left. None of them seemed to even notice their fallen comrade. “It does not enjoy being meddled with. But, as all things, we will break its spirit.” She held her hands in front of her and stared down her nose at the magic vortex, which shifted back to a gentle blue. “I sent him back to try and defeat the First Dragonborn. Time has rejected him.” Ondolemar knew there was more than that, but he kept quiet. “Once we have killed both Dragonborns, Skyrim will be ripe for the picking.” Elenwen nodded once to herself.   
  
“That will be harder than originally thought.”

Ondolemar heard the woman beside him give a disgusted scoff.  
“What news do you bring, Dunmer?” She did not tear her gaze from the warp.   
“The First Dragonborn has returned to Nirn. He has returned to his timeline,” the Dunmer strode in front of Ondolemar towards Elenwen, crossing her arms in front of the Altmer. _ Stupid girl_. Trying to block Elenwen’s view of the warp would get her killed. And Elenwen, nearly a foot above her, could still see perfectly fine. “And he has returned to the Last Dragonborn.”

“That is what you said would _ not _ happen.” Ondolemar frowned. “Are you quite capable of telling the truth, girl?”   
“Your plan has failed. No matter how many times you go back and try to kill him, he will not die, and he will not vanish again. The Psijics have anchored him here with strong, ancient magic. Anchored him to her.”   
“Are you not a Psijic?” Elenwen snapped. “Do you not share the knowledge of these strong, ancient magics with your fellows? Find a way to break it, that we may get rid of him once and for all.” A sick grin spread her hawkish features. “Without him, she is nothing but a scared little Nord.”

“I was at the Second Battle of Solitude. Were you?” The Dunmer aimed the question directly for the Emissary, but she did not answer. “I know what the First Dragonborn and the one they call Throne-Breaker are capable of. I have seen their powers and abilities firsthand. And I am telling you, your plan has failed.”  
“Then you are to find another way.” Elenwen said evenly, but Ondolemar could see her contained rage. After nearly a dreadful year of his life wasted around the woman, he was beginning to see her giveaways, no matter how minuscule they were. “The First Dragonborn must be disposed of.” She spoke as if he were street trash—though of course, one would never come across such a sight on the pristine walks of Summerset. “We will continue trying until you prove yourself capable enough of finding another way.”

  
The blue undulated again into crimson, reached out to grab one of the mages by the throat. A _ snap _ filled the room, and he fell dead without a sound. Six mages remained. Ondolemar grimaced.

“I have _ been _ to Artaeum. To Ceporah Tower.” The Dunmer straightened out, squaring her shoulders as Ondolemar stared down his nose at her. “The First Dragonborn is not to be trifled with. And he will not rest without answers. He will not be content without knowing what has happened to him. And when the time comes, if _ she _ hasn’t already...” she eyed each of the Thalmor in the room, giving them a slow, unsettling smile, “...he will find you.”

* * *

“Why are you out here, _ ahtlahzey? _”

Tharya sighed at his voice. His presence was still so new, so surprising. She thought it would be like putting on an old glove, having him back, yet it still shocked her to the very core to see his face. To feel his presence, to hear his voice.  
“I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep.” She glanced up at the night sky. Now she was beginning to see the void left by the missing stars. Beginning to see what Miraak had been trying to say all along, what she had ignored and waved off until it was too late. “I missed you but it’s so odd having you around.” Tharya chuckled emptily and let her head fall into her hands, sighing in frustration. “Why are _ you _ out here?” She twisted to look up at him, meeting soft and worried golden eyes that seemed to shine like rivers in the moonlight.   
“I haven’t had a moment with you since I returned,” he said just barely loud enough for her to hear, his voice immeasurably tender, “I missed you, _ dii lokaal_.” She swore the hints of a shamed blush danced across his face but his dark skin was the perfect concealer of such emotion. He looked like a nervous child for a moment, shifting on his feet and moving his gaze from space to space until it settled on her again.

  
“What’s that?” She gestured to the coiled chain in his hand, giving a low whistle as he unraveled it and let the length of the chain fall between his feet. “A _ whip? _ ”   
“You would find no better craftsmanship anywhere from after Atmora froze over.” He mused. “The Psijic had it in the vault he spoke of earlier.” Miraak returned her raised eyebrow. “What?”   
“Just...it’s a whip. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone use a whip in combat before,” Tharya shrugged, “you know how to use it?” It was Miraak’s turn to shrug.   
“The whip was a staple of Atmoran combat. Everyone outside of the military knew how to use it to some basic extent.” Tharya eyed him.   
“You don’t know how to use it.”   
“Not in the slightest.” With a groan he coiled the razor chain back up and set it in the grass before sitting beside her. “Nearly five thousand years has passed since I even picked one up. Dukaan says I was mediocre.” 

Tharya watched as he reached for her hand, making it vanish in his much larger one. He turned their palms against one another, resting his free arm on his propped knee and examining the size difference between them. Tharya watched his curiosity. His face had never been so expressive...or maybe it had, and she had so grown used to his stoicism that all she needed was a break from his stare and line-pressed lips to be able to read him like an open book. Without a word the Dragon Priest turned her knuckles over his and kissed them, fitting her palm to his cheek. His broad shoulders were suddenly humbled, his proud features knocked down one by one at the simplest of touches. The giant of a man she’d come to know was subdued, subjugated, submitting wholly to the feel of another, to the affection he had lacked for countless centuries. To _ her_.   
“Miraak,” she tilted his chin up and his tired gaze traveled to her, full of reverence and devotion and raw _ love _. In the silence he leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against her lips, splaying his palms to her back, wrapping them in an impenetrable sheet of secret intimacy. And he captured those divine lips again and again and again, a quiet delight settling in his bones. This is where he was meant to be. No matter what happened, this was where he was destined to be. Not in this field, not on this island, not even on the face of the planet or in this universe.

But with her.

“Come to bed with me, _ dii lokaal._” His lips touched her ear as he whispered just above the wind, pressing a kiss against her temple. She coiled a single brown curl around her index finger. She’d missed his arms. His heartbeat. His warmth. His voice in her ear in the mornings, his hands in her hair, his lips brushing over her neck. 

“I couldn’t want anything more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geh - yes  
drem yol lok - dragon greeting  
ahtlahzey - arch-mage  
dii lokaal - my love


	8. The Warlord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the squad figures out who's truly behind the break; the priests decide to give cara a special gift.

“You’re very good at the Atmoran style of fighting.”

Cara felt her smile falter.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No!” Tharya laughed, leaning against her spear as she bent to get her water. “The Atmoran style is a little more classy than close combat is today—I’ve heard there were lots of rules surrounding duels and everything was kind of honor-based. Dirty blows were considered morally wrong. But the way you fight is just fine,” Tharya clicked her spear to the other woman’s shield, “you’ll have five other people fighting with you, anyway.” The elf felt relief at her words; she should’ve guessed her Miraak would train her in his own fighting style, the one he knew the best. She hadn’t even thought of that.  
“You know a lot about..._this? _ ” She gestured vaguely around them to the empty pavilion, and the Nord laughed again.   
“I may not be booksmart, but I am a good tactician. General Beefcake over there,” she gestured a ways away to where Dukaan and both First Dragonborns were talking amongst themselves, “fights a little differently than yours does, if your movements are anything to go by. If the Yokudans were the Redguards before Redguards, I’d guess they have some wild sixth sense when it comes to swordplay.” Tharya drained the rest of her water before giving a satisfied sigh, her pale gaze traveling around Artaeum. 

The rolling fields of gold and vibrant green were beautiful, the pure sky above and the beating sun were beautiful. The island was beautiful, but she found herself less and less impressed by its surroundings every day they spent here. In this land of beauty, outside there raged a storm of chaos that not everyone could even see. And Quaranir had charged them with breaking that storm, but he’d hardly shown his face the past three days. The sun was retreating lower and lower in the sky. Soon they’d be through four days, and then a week, then a month—gods, she hoped it didn’t come to that. Miraak had told her enough horror stories of the previous Dragon Breaks, and Mnemoli still hung in the atmosphere like a petulant child. She wasn’t sure if it was growing bigger but Miraak predicted it was.

And she didn’t plan to see the day when it grew large enough to swallow the sky.

Her eyes settled on the Yokudan across the pavilion only to find he was staring directly at her, arms crossed over his chest. 

_ The Thalmor would like to tell us something_. He sounded mildly disinterested but gave a minute jerk of his chin to beckon her over. Cara’s violet gaze fell on Tharya and then walked across the space to Miraak, turning to raise an eyebrow at the Nord.   
“That ex-Thalmor wants to say something, I guess. We should head over. Good job today,” she smiled at the Altmer, “we can keep training whenever we have free time, if you want.”

“How long have you two been together?” The elf asked suddenly, making clear eyes blink rapidly at her. 

“Six...seven months since we got out of Apocrypha,” she nodded slowly. It became clear she wasn’t used to providing details of her relationships, and especially so when asked point-blank. “Doesn’t feel like seven months.” She gave a low chuckle, shifting her weight. “I mean...how about you? You seem very...close.”

“Would you believe me if I said only a few months? I’ve known him almost a year but it took nearly six months for the both of us to admit to one another our feelings.” Cara smiled at the memory of New Life. Tharya coughed awkwardly, and gestured for them to start walking.

“Why does he call you _ dii lovaas _ anyway?” Tharya asked, trying to steer away from the subject just enough. “My...my song, right?”

Cara smiled. “He started calling me that after we got together. He loves it when I sing.” 

Tharya raised a brow. “Care to share?”

“Here?”  
“Why not?” She smiled kindly. 

The Altmer cleared her throat and a gentle, clear voice, if hushed, left her lips. Just after a few words a cold realization struck Tharya: she had heard this voice before. These words, this song. She had heard Cara.

_ The fort’s noise behind her faded into a low hum, and Tharya closed her eyes as a gentle breeze swept through the plains. Gjukar was saying something but she didn’t hear it. Attached to her spear, now, was a vibrant crimson and black feather, tied just below her mother’s protection rune. A little parting gift from Sanguine. It fluttered in the air, eagerly awaiting its imminent use. _

_ The fort was bustling, the sun warming her skin, and Gjukar had fallen silent. The wind had a chill to it, and carrying in its cold grasp was a sweet and smooth voice, rolling from far across the mountains to her ears: _

_ High in the halls of the kings who are gone _ _   
_ _ Rellae would dance with her ghosts _

_ The ones she had lost and the ones she had found, _

_ And the ones who had loved her the most... _   
  
“That...” Tharya said slowly. Cara watched with an expectant eye. “That was nice,” the Nord finally pushed out, giving a strained smile. _ How _ did she know her voice? How had she heard this elf from a different universe? Unless..._things have not gone in our favor since Torygg died_. Gods...how long had this Break been in the making?   
  
“...and that way we’ll be able to pinpoint the true source of the Break.”   
“If it even has one,” Quaranir piped up from between the green-eyed High Elf and the one with porcelain skin and hair, “Breaks do not have to be confined to one cause.”   
“Sorry—Erador, right?” The green eyes fell on her. “Could you repeat all of what you just said?” The ex-Thalmor agent sighed dryly.   
“I’d love to. We’re going to perform a ritual to see if the Thalmor actually have something to do with this Dragon Break, like my sources say. If they do, well...the ritual will tell us. If they don’t, then we’ll get to know the true cause of the Break, so either way, we can’t lose.”   
“What kind of ritual?” Cara asked.   
“A simple one. But we’ll have to go inside,” Ayera was first to take a few steps away. The group dispersed with a couple mumbles and followed her inside. Only Miraak hung back, tapping his fingers against his bicep.   
“Strange.” He said with his eyes turned to the sky. Tharya shuffled around him to stand at his side before following his gaze upwards, surveying the clear blue expanse.   
“What is?” She asked after a dull moment.   
“It is going to rain,” the Priest said curiously, squinting to the heavens, “I have never been unsure of that. My wound is always correct. But there is no wind, no clouds.” He inhaled. “No humidity, even.” His feet swiveled towards the tower but his body didn’t follow. “But it _ will _ rain.”

* * *

The map of Tamriel hung at least six feet down and six across, still as a statue against the wall. Erador was holding a wooden bowl of some kind of paint while Ayera drew swirling Aldmeris glyphs onto the thick parchment. Quaranir looked exhausted. Tharya, Cara, and the Priests clumped together a safe distance from the map, watching Ayera make the last mark before she too stepped back with Erador. Together they conjured some kind of lavender fire to their palms, and then reached out to let the flames lick the very edges of the map. The blaze devoured the paper at a ferocious pace, dancing like scattering leaves around the map, as if the fire was uncertain of where to go. Finally it closed in on Summerset, and burned a good majority of the islands away, and framing a northern bit of Alinor. There was nothing written there, no cities or landmarks, but the lavender flames burned brightly before exploding into thin air, leaving them with a scrap of painted parchment no bigger than a cup.

It hung suspended in the air until it began to shimmer, magic surrounding it, creating the dull outline of a mirror. It resembled, Miraak thought, his sphere in Apocrypha, only larger. Faint voices carried through the hazy mirror, and a gust of unfelt wind rippled the map. And for a brief moment, they were granted the view of a room. Stone, with low ceilings. It looked old; it looked like it had been abandoned until only recently. In the center of the room was a blue undulating circle, with wispy arms outstretched to six kneeling Thalmor mages. A harsh, annoyingly Altmer voice carved through the serene silence:  
“The First Dragonborn must be dealt with. I do not care how. He has come back and he should not have,” Tharya felt a chill assault her spine. She knew that voice. “How is it he is able to resist our attempts to remove him?”   
“A thought, Emissary.” Another voice put in, unsettlingly suave. “Hermaeus Mora was the Daedric Prince who rescued him at the last moment, was he not? Perhaps it is Hermaeus Mora who needs to be disposed of.”   
“And how would _ you _suggest we cage the Daedric Prince of Fate and Knowledge, Ondolemar?” Behind her, Tharya heard a gentle gasp from Cara. Did she know Ondolemar?

Before he could answer the image folded in like a letter, pressed itself into a thin line, and vanished. The piece of map leftover fell into Quaranir’s waiting hands.   
“Elenwen.” Tharya sighed, running a hand through her blonde hair. “To tell the truth, she was one of the people I hoped I’d never have to see again.”   
“I thought Ondolemar was dead,” Erador said before anyone could reply. He was staring fixedly at the spot where the mirror had been. From his side, Ayera supplied:   
“This isn’t our timeline anymore, so it’s not impossible that he would be alive.” The ex-Thalmor still seemed unsettled at the thought, but Quaranir called their attention back to the matter at hand.   
“This is good,” he nodded to himself, “know that we know the source of the Break, you must go speak with the Weavers.”   
“The who?”   
“The Weavers,” he repeated, eyeing Cara like a tired parent. “They are responsible for creating and maintaining the Tapestry of Time. They will tell you what is broken and must be fixed. However, getting to them will be no easy task.” The Psijic let those words sink in for a moment, before he gestured to Miraak’s paler counterpart. “But there are more immediate matters to attend. Dragonborn, if you would.”   
“Wait, wait—what do you mean _ not an easy task? _ ” Tharya stepped forward. “Care to elaborate on that?”   
“All will be revealed in due time, Throne-Breaker. For now you must prepare yourselves for the journey ahead.”   
“Typical Psijic answer,” she sighed. Miraak looked between them and, seeing he had everyone’s attention, gestured to Cara. They turned.

In her hands was a burnished gold Dragon Priest mask with tusks jutting outwards from the jaw.  
“_Dii rah_,” Dukaan spoke first after a long, stunned silence blanketed the group. “How did you come into possession of this?” He extended his hands for the mask and Cara hesitantly gave it to him. “The Warlord is not so easily obtained, _ mal fahliil_. All the power of the Priests combined...each mask collected in times of war so that Konahrik may be bestowed upon one of us. If my history does not fail me,” his chestnut eyes narrowed on Cara, “it was given to one of our Skyrim counterparts at the outbreak of what you call the _ Dovah Kein_. The Dragon War. And...sealed away by the last remaining Priests when Bromjunaar was abandoned.” Dukaan turned to offer the mask to Miraak, who looked dubiously at it, tracing the draconic features with his eyes. With a stiff step forward he took it in his hands, and almost simultaneously felt a searing pain burst to life from it. A vicious red glow surrounded it and made him drop it as immediately as he had picked it up.   
“_Unfaithful..._” the mask hissed, its red glow becoming soft white before dissipating altogether. Miraak winced as he unrolled his hands to find furious red welts bubbling on his skin, steam rising from his palms.

“Let me,” Dukaan spared him an inquisitive glance before crouching to pick the mask up, timidly although he had already touched it. It did not burn him. “Unfaithful.” He mused. “Rather interesting. I did not know Konahrik was...”  
“Sentient.” Tharya supplied, gingerly taking Miraak’s hands in her own.   
“This also isn’t the Konahrik from your timeline,” Cara looked back and forth between the Yokudan and the mask. She had other thoughts, but she wasn’t sharing them. “But...I really don’t know. Are you alright?”   
“I am fine,” Miraak watched Tharya’s healing spell knit his wound closed. “It is not the first time I have been...rejected by enchanted objects.”   
“Brother,” the pale Atmoran stepped forward, aiming his words for Dukaan, “we brought the mask for a reason. I think,” he glanced at Cara, “we should perform the correct rituals, and bind the mask properly to _ dii kest._” Dukaan shifted uneasily.   
“I am not the senior priest,” he said, “and I would still like to know how you came into possession of it.”   
“I...earned it,” Cara explained, “I found all the other masks and put them in the sanctuary at Bromjunaar.”   
“And the Warlord allowed you to take him?”   
“It hasn’t burned or abandoned me yet.” The elf shrugged.   
“Very interesting.” Dukaan turned the mask over in his hands before extending it to Miraak’s taller counterpart. “Then it is only right that it is hers. Psijic,” he turned now to Quaranir, fuschia robes swishing with the movement, “you have a place to do this?” The Altmer gave a nod.   
  
“We cannot do it without the others.” Golden eyes flitted from Dukaan to Miraak. “The ritual can only be performed in our true number. Without the others, the magic...will not be right.”   
“The others?” Dukaan echoed thoughtfully, running a hand down his braid. “The others will come, _ mal zeymah_. Of that, I have no doubt.”

* * *

The nights brought a chilled breeze to Artaeum that rustled the trees and tall grass. Quaranir brought the Priests to a separate room from which they didn’t emerge until nightfall, but through the Psijic they delivered strict instructions. A mile or so from the gleaming Tower the grass was trampled flat before it was gone altogether. Beneath their boots was packed dirt, and the ruin of a once-great temple, perhaps. Worn stone stairs led to what would’ve been an altar, but time and weather had knocked the building down around it, and left the little platform alone in the center of the ruin. Four broken down columns framed where grand doors had once been, and below the dirt leading to the altar, the unrecognizable tatters of an ancient rug poked through.

“So, what exactly is going on?” Erador meandered over to Tharya as she shoved another tall torch into the ground. There were six torches each, all placed equidistant apart. They were at least as tall as Ayera. Tharya snapped her fingers and a little flame flickered to life at her fingertips; she lit the torch with a shrug.  
“Honestly, I’m not sure. I haven’t had the chance to ask Miraak what’s going on, but they’re doing something with the mask.”   
“They’re gifting it to Cara,” Ayera said as she joined them. “Or something like that. Quaranir said there would be a ritual, but that’s just about it.”   
“Speak of the Daedra, here they come now.” Erador gestured with his sword to four approaching figures moving below the moonlight. Quaranir was moving at a fast pace in front, putting distance between himself and the Priests. Tharya didn’t recognize their many-layered robes. They were...lavish. Flowing rich colors, decorated with gold inlay and metal ornaments, draping sleeves and hoods. Dukaan kept his fuschia and black scheme, with a gold ring on each finger and a band of necklaces around his throat. Miraak was dressed in a beautiful, shadowy forest green with gold patterns and winding metal pauldrons over his shoulders, and beside him his counterpart donned the same.

“I’m a little nervous,” a new voice made them all jump, and they turned to see Cara standing with Quaranir. No one had even seen them approach. “Miraak won’t tell me what’s going to happen. Only that I can’t move or say anything.”  
“Ominous.” Ayera said.   
“That’s what I said.” Tharya watched Erador open his mouth but his words didn’t reach her; his voice was drowned out by another.

_ It is imperative you heed the elf’s words, ahtlahzey. Do not speak, do not cast, do not Shout. Interfere in no way. I fear the consequences if you should do so. _ Tharya excused herself and took a few steps away from the group, dodging Quaranir’s suspicious glance.   
_ What do you mean? _ She heard Miraak sigh.

_ There is...a certain magic summoned during these rituals. It is as natural as the air we breathe and as binding as an assassin contract. Once we bring it to be, we must carry through the ritual uninterrupted to disband it. _ He explained slowly. Tharya turned to the dusky horizon where the three Priests were conversing just out of earshot. _ You should consider yourself lucky, dii fil. It was a rare sight indeed to have an audience to observe our rituals. _ She could hear a hint of smugness in his voice; of course he wanted to show off. She had no idea what this ritual would entail, but if his well-covered excitement was anything to go by, it would be good.

She, Ayera, Erador, and Quaranir took up positions by four of the torches, but the other two on the ends remained unmanned. They were short-staffed, but everything else seemed to be falling into place. The trio of Priests split, Dukaan in one aisle, both Miraaks shoulder-to-shoulder in the center lane leading directly to the altar. Cara climbed the steps and sat with her legs crossed on the old stone, looking at the mask before taking a few deep breaths and donning it. The hood hid her inky hair, and her kind golden features were lost to the eternally stoic face of the mask.

[A low hum pierced through the night ](https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v%3DVBPwCmU0V-Q&sa=D&ust=1571537077432000&usg=AFQjCNGlPUmDknhFeg0oxAEBLagK2sVStw)and Tharya realized it was coming from the Atmorans, all humming low and guttural in their throats. It sent chills racing down her spine and made her shudder, the torch shaking ever so slightly. Such a low, powerful sound cut easily through the cold air and seemed to make the temperature drop. They began to take slow, measured and careful steps. One foot forward and the other joined it; they paused, and repeated the motion. Tharya could feel the strength of Miraak’s Thu’um elbowing its way into the conjoined sound.

_ Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, _

_ naal ok zin los vahriin, _

_ wah dien vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal. _

_ Ahrk fin norok paal graan fod nust hon zindro zaan, _

_ Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal _

The song erupted like slow lava at first, baritone and smooth and indescribably beautiful. Tharya had never heard him sing before. He had not even raised his voice to hum or whistle. But as he drew closer, Miraak’s voice filled her ears, powerful, full of subtle vibrato, impossibly low and flowing.

_ Huzrah nu, _

_ Kul do od, _

_ wah aan bok lingrah vod, _

_ ahrk fin tey, boziik fun, do fin gein. _

_ Wo lost fron wah ney dov, ahrk fin reyliik do jul, _

_ voth aan suleyk wah ronit faal krein. _

_ Ahrk fin zul, rok drey kod, nau tol morokei frod, _

_ rul lot Taazokaan motaad voth kein. _

_ Sharot Thu'um, med aan tuz, vey zeim hokoron pa, _

_ ol fin Dovahkiin komeyt ok rein. _

She had never thought of Dovahzul as a romantic language, but the way it came off their lips was akin to the gentle ebb and flow of a river just before it cascades over the edge into a waterfall. They returned to humming three notes for a moment, and Ayera and Erador found each other’s eyes as misty figures began to materialize in the other four paths. Like shimmering clouds of air at first, and then one by one, their features became more evident. Tall, with flowing colorful robes, each holding dragon-headed staves. All singing, all adding another layer to the three baritones who controlled the night with their song.

The Solstheim Priests had come. And together, all seven of voices rose to a new, untouched, holy height.

_ Ahrk fin Kel lost prodah, _

_ do ved viing ko fin krah, _

_ tol fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein. _

_ Alduin, feyn do jun, kruziik vokun staadnau, _

_ voth aan boahlok wah diivon fin lein. _

A tremendous crack split the sky as the First Dragonborn raised his head to let loose a throaty _ hyah! _ which every Priest echoed in perfect harmony, halting once in their steps before continuing. They were nearly at the torches now, and the sense of finality hung in the air. Tharya could see that each of them was wearing a circlet, made of glistening silver, carved to resemble a dragon wrapped around one’s head with an open mouth in the center of the forehead. In each dragon’s mouth was a small gem; the only one she could see was Miraak’s, a sparkling garnet. He looked like an entirely different person in his ceremonial robes. He, his twin, and every other Priest came to a perfectly unison halt at the torches, and belted out the last verse of their bone-chilling song. Harmonies trampled each other to gain dominance but not once did the song sound unbalanced.

_ Nuz aan sul, fent alok, fod finvul dovah nok, _

_ fen kos nahlot mafaeraak ahrk ruz. _

_ Paaz Keizaal fen kos stin nol bein Alduin jot, _

_ Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, kos fin saviik do muz. _

_ Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin, _

_ wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal. _

_ Ahrk fin norok paal graan fod nust hon zindro zaan, _

_ Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal. _

Another tremble of the earth, _ hyah!_, but this time each staff went down with it, and the surge of magic nearly knocked the air from her lungs. Miraak was barely a foot away, his golden eyes fixed straight ahead, unmoving. He didn’t even look like he was breathing. The last chord, higher than almost every note in the song, hung dense and resonating in the air. She felt light and heavy at the same time. Powerful and fatigued. Miraak did not spare her a glance. His brown fingers were curled loosely around a staff that was not his own, and even though it was in perfect condition, looked old. Something else from the vault, perhaps.   


“Brothers!” One of the spectral Priests, bathed in a burnt orange glow, raised his voice to the sky. That...that had to be Ahzidal. She didn’t know what gave her thought, but once she had it it was impossible to shake. “This one has come seeking the blessing of the Warlord, that she may carry him, that she may be born in the blood of her enemies. How do you find her?” Again in impeccable unison, the rest of the Priests shouted something in Higher Atmoran, slamming their staves to the ground. “Worthy!” The head Priest echoed. And then, in a silent procession, all seven of them moved forward, until they created a loose semi-circle in front of the altar Cara sat on. Without a sound Ahzidal raised his staff high above his head and pummeled it into the ground. The dirt of Artaeum splintered and broke, fault lines appearing between Tharya’s feet, stretching like a crack in glass below the ruins. Her mouth fell open—but she kept silent. What...what was happening? Desperately she tried to get Miraak’s attention but he was focused, his dark features set in concentration and determination.

“_Alduin, hon mu nu!” _ Ahzidal raised his hands to the starless night. "_Alduin, bolaav mii hin kogaan! Kogaan fin Konahrik voth hin yol! _” A dark wind blew out all their torches, all the braziers lit. The only light came from the slim moon and the glow surrounding the seven Priests. Miraak and his counterpart squared their shoulders and together unleashed a joint Thu’um into the cosmos:

“_Al-du-in!_”

...**_Alduin?_ **

A terrible roar flew in on the dreadful breeze, and the ghostly form of a dragon blacker than night beat its wings down and perched just behind where Cara sat. Two burning crimson eyes sputtered like flame from the wispy outline of a head.

“_Drem Yol Lok, Thuri_.” The Solstheim Priests bowed without hesitation to the ethereal Alduin. Tharya felt her blood run cold.

_ Strength, ahtlahzey_. Miraak’s voice flooded her head as a river breaks a dam, a warm caress against the brittle cold invading her body. _ He is not real_. She swallowed to open her clenched throat.

_ Miraak... _   
He did not move.

_ Still yourself. You are protected, dii lokaal. He cannot hurt you, even in this form. _

** _In this form?_ ** She echoed, holding back a bitter laugh. The First Dragonborn’s foot shifted half an inch in the dirt.

_ Alduin can never be killed, Tharya. _

  
“We humbly ask your favor in blessing the new Warlord, _Thuri_. We of the Fire have deemed her worthy to bear the mask.”  
“There is...another,” ignoring Ahzidal completely, Alduin sniffed around Cara but she remained still as a statue, the mask hiding any expression on her face. He craned his head downwards, curling one misty wing around the Altmer. “Who are you hiding, _mal Sonaak?_” Miraak was silent. Tharya felt his magic in the air around her slip away. She hadn’t even felt it go up the first place, but now, she knew, she wasn’t under his protection. Miraak looked almost dead, he was so still. “Ah,” Alduin inhaled slowly, “you are familiar, _mal dovah._ _Briinmah._ But I do not know where we have met. _Krosis._” She couldn’t even think of what to say. That was Alduin, no doubt about it. The Alduin she’d killed in Sovngarde...the Alduin who had left a scar just above her hip on the right side. The Alduin whose soul she had never absorbed...the Alduin of her prophecy. “You have my blessing, _Zoklahzey._” He inhaled slowly. “This Warlord will bring you great _krongrah._” They all watched in terror as the dragon drew himself up and belched a line of fire directly at Cara, who made no move to avoid it or even block it. The Priests fell silent.

When the smoke cleared, she was sitting there unharmed, not even a wrinkle in her robes. The mask seemed to be buzzing with magic. And when they looked, Alduin was gone.  
  
“The Warlord has been chosen, brothers.” Ahzidal did not stand, “you may make your oaths.”

  
_ “Whatever happens, you must not move. You must not speak. Allow us to go through with the ritual,” he explained gently, his grip on her shoulders tight but reassuring, “when I extend my hand to you, the ritual is done, but there still must be a procession out. Do you understand all of that?” It wasn’t a condescending question but rather a worried one. He wanted to make sure everything went perfect. _ _   
“Whatever happens,” Cara echoed with a nod, and then chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “What will happen? You make it sound ominous.” He didn’t reply._

She watched from the eye slits of the mask as the spectral form of Ahzidal approached. Both Miraaks had taken up positions on either side of her. He lifted a phantasmagoric knife to his transparent palm and brought the blade slowly and curiously across it, like slicing bread. No blood fell from his hand, for he had no blood to give. But the impact of _ something _ made the mask shift on her face. She could feel it, like a viscous sludge running over the intricately carved features. A man with long, silver braided hair and a kind face repeated the gesture, and the feeling was doubled. 

Beside her, the First Dragonborns rammed the staves against the stone, a guttural noise leaving their throats. The earth trembled and stilled. The next Priest was tall and lanky, with features she found almost feminine. He was also the only smooth-shaven one. It was hard to remember they were ghosts, when they looked so alive. Dukaan came up the stairs next and repeated the gesture, giving her the smallest of apologetic looks as the first drops of real blood dripped over the draconic face. Cara closed her eyes and prayed to the gods it wouldn’t come in through the slits. Another earth-rattling shout and this time Vahlok moved in front of her, his midnight blue robes almost blending with the night sky. More spectral fluid. He glanced briefly to her right where the Yokudan stood before returning to his spot. Both Miraaks left their places at her sides only to step in front of her. Together they dragged burnished gold daggers across their differently colored palms, and held the stream of blood over her mask until they deemed it satisfactory.

_ Whatever happens, you must not move. You must not speak. Whatever happens. _

“You look distraught, _ mal kest. _ ” The words came from her Miraak, his voice barely above a whisper. Cara’s violet gaze flickered to the other Miraak, where he knelt on one knee, head bowed, knuckles pressed to the cool ground. A humid breeze swept over Artaeum, ruffling everyone’s robes, but none of the men moved. She couldn’t even see if they were breathing or not, so still they were, like perfectly carved figures. “You deserve it, _ mal kest. _ ” He gave the gentlest and slightest of smiles before assuming the same position, but extending his hands upwards with Konahrik laid across his palms. Then his voice rose again, firm and almost melodic as he spoke. “In this time of war and death, the Warlord once again descends upon us, and is gifted to you, _ Dovahkiin. _ Justly may you lead and swiftly may you deliver the death of our foes.”

“_Justly may you lead and swift may you deliver the death of our foes._” The six other Priests echoed. 

“A new Warlord is anointed.”

“_A new Warlord is anointed._”

“In the blood of her brothers, may she be christened.”

“_May she be christened._”

“To serve as to lead in this time of strife.”

“_To serve as to lead in this time of strife._”

“To protect and to guide in this time of chaos.”

“_To protect and to guide in this time of chaos._”

“Rise, Warlord, and walk once again amongst your brothers. Rise, brothers, and greet once again your divine commander.” With that same smile, Miraak stood and extended a gloved hand to her. “Rise, _ Dovahkiin._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dii rah - my gods  
mal fahliil - little elf  
dii kest - my storm  
Alduin, hon mu nu! - Alduin, hear me now!  
Alduin, bolaav mii hin kogaan! Kogaan fin Konahrik voth hin yol! - Alduin, grant us your blessing! Bless the Warlord with your fire!  
thuri - my overlord  
mal sonaak - little priest  
mal dovah - little dragon  
krosis - apologies  
briimah - sister  
zoklahzey - my own word, combo of "greatest" and "mage", meaning ahzidal's title of Grand Mage  
krongrah - victory
> 
> yes zahkriisos is trans ftm change my mind


	9. sneak peek of chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone, i'm super sorry i probably won't be able to post this weekend but it's been a hellish two weeks at my house; my college deadlines are very close (november first & fifth) and i had to focus all my energy on writing my college essay, doing financial aid, and sitting with counselors and teachers to get letters of recommendation done. on top of that, there's just a lot of family drama going on that really stresses me out, so overall i haven't really had time to write! i hope you'll forgive me but for now here's this little sneak preview until the next chapter is available. comments and kudos are life! love y'all! :)

“Before you go, I must know something, Dragonborn.” She looked up to the huge guardian, who seemed unsettled by something. “The First Dragonborn—Miraak.”  
“It’s refreshing to hear that someone knows his name,” she mumbled under her breath.  
“Do you truly love him? Him, of all people?” Tsun sat gingerly on the stone ledge. “Are you sure he is deserving of your love?” Tharya sighed, looking at her hands, and then twisting to gaze into the rippling fountain water. A visage materialized on the water's surface, coming to life like a painting. A scarred bronze face and vibrant golden eyes, lips drawn into a cocky grin. There was a ghost of a touch against her chin, the breeze carrying the warmth of lips against her forehead down from the mountains. "Doesn't everyone deserve something?" She murmured.

"Yes. Some deserve a quick death," Tsun grunted, frowning. He dipped a hand in the water and Miraak vanished, the image splitting around the guardian's intruding fingers. "You are much too forgiving, Dragonborn. Much too kind. He will take advantage of that, and of you.”  
“It’s been almost eight months, he hasn’t done anything to that affect yet.”  
“He is no stranger to waiting. He will outwait you if it takes him centuries.” Tsun grabbed her hand. “You are a savior, Throne-Breaker, but I would not wish to see you return here permanently so soon.”  
  
“Despite what you all think of him, he’s not a blood-thirsty killer who’s biding his time to steal my soul and take over the world.” She stood suddenly, anger seeping into her veins. “Did you ever think that maybe serving the Cult has shaped him in some way? Did you ever think, that _ maybe_, somehow, being _ imprisoned _ for four thousand years has done _ something _ to him?” Tsun slowly scrunched under her scrutiny. “So yes, to answer your question, I do think him deserving of love. Not just mine, but whoever will give it to him. Because he has not known love like we all have for the entirety of his life, and he has been alive since the start of civilization on this dirt heap called Nirn. And you may not see it, but he’s kind, and he’s a good person. You all just shaped him into a monster. Did you ever think he’s just filling the expectations you have for him?” Tsun was silent. "I just don't understand what makes us entitled to say what he does and doesn't deserve."  
  
"He does not deserve _you_, Dragonborn." The guardian said quietly. "You do not need a god to tell you that."  
"I don't need a god to tell me anything." Tharya snapped. "You're all full of it."


	10. The Time Trials: Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, so sorry everyone for the delay with this chapter...the writing also probably isn't the best because i've had no time whatsoever to do anything these past two/three weeks & my depression is kicking back in so that's always fun :) i promise the next chapter will be better, but i got to the point where i really just didn't want to even look at this one anymore so i decided to post. again, thank you all for sticking with me and being so patient! comments and kudos are my life, hope you enjoy! :) <3

“I miss this place.”

Tsun gave her an odd look, raising one thick eyebrow.  
“You miss the land of the dead?”  
“I miss Sovngarde,” Tharya nodded once, “everything is so quiet here. Calm. The stars are pretty. There’s no problems, no Dragonborn business...all you guys do is drink and eat and sleep and sometimes get into fistfights.” She smiled weakly. “The real world is so problematic.” Tsun chuckled and extended a hand to her. Tharya could barely fit her hand around two of his fingers, but the giant gave a flushed smile and together they strolled away from the whalebone bridge, down the mostly-hidden stony path of Sovngarde. She vaguely remembered being here, nearly two years ago now? It had been so long.  
“Something is on your mind, Throne-Breaker.” Tsun rumbled after an extended silence. He surveyed the sky out of habit, as if waiting for Alduin to swoop down and devour them at any moment. “What is it?”  
“Nothing.” Tharya shrugged, battling to keep their precious walk silent and problem-free.  
“No.” Tsun stopped in his tracks and Tharya was forced to stop with him, giving a deep sigh. “What is it?” He repeated.

“Something Miraak told me,” Tharya toed the stone beneath her boots, “something about Alduin.” Tsun groaned.  
“You should not trust the First Dragonborn, Throne-Breaker, he is nothing but a...a scoundrel.” Tharya raised an eyebrow at him.  
“I will say he has some scoundrel-like qualities,” she nodded, “including but not limited to his roguishly handsome looks, the way he never smiles, and how he always seems to start trouble.”  
“Exactly.”  
“So you agree he’s roguishly handsome?” She gave him a cheeky grin.  
“No. I think he is roguishly hideous.” Tsun huffed, and then crossed his arms. “He will manipulate you, Throne-Breaker. He is comfortable now because he is earning your trust. But the time will come, believe me. He will betray you when you finally let your guard down. He will destroy your trust.”

Tharya stared at him before walking on, following the path to a worn old stone fountain that let out a gentle, droopy stream of clear water. She remembered this fountain; it had not been working when she had last come to Sovngarde, but the beauty of its age remained, and the vines embracing the stone were still there. Warily, Tsun followed.  
“I wish you all would try to see him for who he is.” She murmured.  
“And who is he, Throne-Breaker?”

She didn’t reply. After a dragging silence, listening only to the water and the faraway calling in the back of her head, the string of magic connecting her to the waking world, she said:  
“He told me Alduin can never die. Is that true?” Tsun opened his mouth. “I don’t want the lore. I just want a straight answer.”  
“That is correct,” the guardian nodded once, “Alduin can never die. He may only be reduced in power and form—what prompted the First to tell you this?”  
“I... _ we _ saw Alduin.” Tsun’s big brown eyes blinked down at her once in amazement, and then again in inquisitive skepticism. “There was a ritual and he just...showed up. At first I thought he wasn’t real, just a whisper, a memory, but I _ felt _ him. I felt his soul—it felt the same as when I defeated him. Taunting. Mocking.” She looked down at her hands. How could she have been so stupid to think Alduin was weak enough to be defeated by any mortal means? By _ her? _ “Just out of my reach.” Tsun was quiet for a long time after that, contemplating the number of stars in the sky before he replied.

“The First will have a better explanation for you, Throne-Breaker,” the guardian nodded, “he will help you to understand.”

Tharya gave him a look before she made to stand from the fountain, glancing back at it again like it was a personal relic. Tsun remembered this fountain too; he remembered the long conversations she and Torygg had here, the discussions of Skyrim’s current state while Tharya was recovering from her fight against Alduin. It had concerned him, the amount of time she spent here in Sovngarde while still alive. But it didn’t seem to affect her at the time, and it didn’t seem to affect her now. She used to joke that dying would be like a homecoming. Tsun didn’t find the sick humor in it that she did.

  
“Before you go, I must know something, Dragonborn.” She looked up to the huge guardian, who seemed unsettled by something. “The First Dragonborn—Miraak.”  
“It’s refreshing to hear that someone knows his name,” she mumbled under her breath.  
“Do you truly love him? Him, of all people?” Tsun sat gingerly on the stone ledge. “Are you sure he is deserving of your love?” Tharya sighed, looking at her hands, and then twisting to gaze into the rippling fountain water. A visage materialized on the water's surface, coming to life like a painting. A scarred bronze face and vibrant golden eyes, lips drawn into a cocky grin. There was a ghost of a touch against her chin, the breeze carrying the warmth of lips against her forehead down from the mountains. 

"Doesn't everyone deserve something?" She murmured.

"Yes. Some deserve a quick death," Tsun grunted, frowning. He dipped a hand in the water and Miraak vanished, the image splitting around the guardian's intruding fingers. "You are much too forgiving, Dragonborn. Much too kind. He will take advantage of that, and of you.”  
“It’s been almost eight months, he hasn’t done anything to that affect yet.”  
“He is no stranger to waiting. He will outwait you if it takes him centuries.” Tsun grabbed her hand. “You are a savior, Throne-Breaker, but I would not wish to see you return here permanently so soon.”  
  
“Despite what you all think of him, he’s not a blood-thirsty killer who’s biding his time to steal my soul and take over the world.” She stood suddenly, anger seeping into her veins. “Did you ever think that maybe serving the Cult has shaped him in some way? Did you ever think, that _ maybe_, somehow, being _ imprisoned _ for four thousand years has done _ something _ to him?” Tsun slowly scrunched under her scrutiny. “So yes, to answer your question, I do think him deserving of love. Not just mine, but whoever will give it to him. Because he has not known love like we all have for the entirety of his life, and he has been alive since the start of civilization on this dirt heap called Nirn. And you may not see it, but he’s kind, and he’s a good person. You all just shaped him into a monster. Did you ever think he’s just filling the expectations you have for him?”

Tsun was silent.  
“He’s not wet clay to be thrown onto the wheel and molded to your liking. He’s a person, he’s already been through the kiln, and you can’t go back and remake him, and he’s had one hell of a rough time. I don’t care if nobody else does, but I’m going to help him.”

The Last Dragonborn stopped, her mouth parted to form the next word, but it shut. Slowly she took a step away and put her arms around herself. Tsun watched her retreat. What was that look in her eye? What was that emotion etched into her tired features? Tharya looked to her toes for a moment before meeting his gaze.  
“I’d like to go back.” 

* * *

Tharya sighed into her pillow, opening her eyes, blinking once, twice, three times before rolling onto her back. The bright stone ceiling met her, and for a moment she didn’t understand—Winterhold was cold and grey...where was she? A large hand settled over her eyes, enveloping her in darkness for a moment, and from her side a thick, sleepy voice said:  
“Artaeum.”

Miraak’s hand slid downwards to lazily trace her lips before he pulled himself closer, gliding his fingers up and down the side of her throat, down her side, tucking an arm around her.  
“_Ugh._” Tharya rolled over straight into the Atmoran’s chest, cramming her face between the shoulder of the arm he propped himself on and his neck. “I want to go home.”  
“It is so much more beautiful here.” She could hear the roll of his eyes.  
“Too much weird shit happening.” The Nord whispered, folding her arms to her chest. “Too much weird shit and I don’t have control over any of it.” Miraak folded himself around her and sighed, big body deflating like a pressed sponge.  
“You love to travel,” he murmured, “why not this time? I thought you would be bursting at the seams.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
“Worldly magic, crossing universes, ancient rituals...plenty of chances for you to recklessly throw yourself about.” He gave a short snort. “I believe that is how _ you _ define adventure.”  
“Tell me about Alduin, please,” Tharya said before he had even finished his sentence. She knew Miraak would have answers; Tsun said he would. He had to. And whether or not he had them, she needed answers from someone, anyone. “I went to Sovngarde, and Tsun told me what you said is true, but I need to know more.”

He was silent for a long time, and she was worried he wouldn’t tell her. She had never known Miraak to withhold things she asked for...  
“It is as simple as I told you last night.” His voice was hushed, gentle almost. His fingers began stroking her hair. “Alduin can never be killed, only reduced. What you saw yesterday _ was _ Alduin. But it has only been a matter of years since he was vanquished; it will be millennia yet until he reappears.”  
“So I failed. I didn’t fulfill my destiny.”  
“_Niid_,” he pulled back to look at her, a frown painting his face, “it is true you did not fight him when he was in his full power, but you did everything your prophecy demanded of you.”  
“Then _how _ can he be alive?”

“The Wheel has turned upon the Last Dragonborn and you have done what was required of you,” he cupped her cheek, urging her eyes up to his. “Do not doubt that. But in another four thousand years Alduin will return, and the Wheel will turn upon you again. You are the Last here and forever, because the Wheel can only go forward, never back.”  
“Four thousand...” she shook her head. “I won’t be _ alive_.”  
“Prophecies do not bend to the will of Time, _ dii fil_.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. “I have been alive for nearly five millennia.”  
“I don’t _ want _ to be alive for five millennia.” Tharya whispered, curling her fingers around his wrist. “Not without you. And my family, all my friends, I—I don’t want to.” Miraak gave her a softhearted look and pressed his lips gently to her forehead, exhaling a hot sigh that broke against her skin.  
“You will not have to. The afterlife is promised to each and every one of us. The Wheel has turned from me to Alessia to the Septims to you, Tharya. You and I are the beginning and the end—the Dragonborns are not infinite. You and I are the most important. Where there is night, there is always day. Where the river begins, it too must end. We will face Alduin together until Time itself breaks apart and crumbles into the dust, no matter what afterlife you find yourself in. You will never have to be alone, because I will always be with you.”

She blinked.  
“Does that mean...there’s a chance you’re going to Sovngarde?”

He smiled slowly and kissed her again before slipping away.  
“The Psijic wanted to speak with us. Apparently our quest has begun.” The bed creaked when he lifted his weight off it, stretching upwards with a groan. The pop of stiff joints and the crack of knuckles met her ears. He glanced back at her.  
  
“And I have never known you to sleep through an adventure.”

* * *

When they got to the main hall there was no one waiting for them except Dukaan, who was pacing in wide ovals around the room and looked entirely relieved when they showed up. At the same time he ushered them out of the room and down the hall they’d just walked the length of, he explained that Quaranir and the others were waiting at a portal outside Ceporah Tower in the fields. Miraak admired his new staff as Dukaan pulled them along, examining the finely carved hand on the bottom, the fat white soul gem affixed to the top. The other Dragon Priest remained a good yard ahead at all times, and not long after they burst through the main doors of the tower they found themselves striding through a massive golden field towards a pitch black portal with their companions standing around it.  
  
“Nice of you to join us.” Erador chirped, a grin on his face. Miraak had slid back into his stoic mask, a far cry from the lazy, bedhead ridden mage from less than half an hour ago.  
“Got lost,” Tharya gestured around, “this place is a lot bigger than Winterhold.”  
“Indeed, it is.” Quaranir cut in. “Dukaan, please inform them of our plan.”  
“The plan is...” his chestnut eyes flicked back to the Psijic, “well, there is not exactly a _ plan_. We have some...ideas.” Quaranir groaned loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose.  
“The plan is to get in contact with the Weavers, who control the Tapestry of Time.”  
“Rings a bell.” Tharya nodded.  
“As I said before, the journey will not be without its perils. Though...I do not know what they are, only that each of you is guaranteed a trial of some sort. Whether it helps or hinders you is up to the Weavers.” Quaranir gestured to the portal. “You will pass through multiple doors; each will correspond to one of the six of you gathered. As for you, Priest...” his eyes narrowed on Dukaan. “There is no telling what will become of you. You are not supposed to be here, after all.”  
“Technically, none of this should actually be happening.” Erador pointed out, crossing his arms. Quaranir looked ready to burst. He put a hand on one of the tree trunk-like limbs that arched around the black portal.  
“There will be a watch posted at this portal night and day until you return. But do not bother coming back if you are unable to do what is required of you,” he frowned, “for there will be no world to come back to.”

Dukaan watched quietly as everyone else stepped through the portal and the blackness swallowed them. He strode towards it with his head held high but Quaranir’s hand flew out to grab his arm.  
“I must speak with you.” He said lowly, checking the portal to make sure everyone was gone. “There is no easy way to say this, Priest." Quaranir gave a little uncertain nod but Dukaan only smiled.

"I find it easiest to merely say it, then." The Atmoran replied. "How can I assist?"

“Your presence here on Nirn is one of the many things..._distressing _ the Fabric of Time,” Quaranir said slowly, watching Dukaan's features shift from pleasant ignorance to dark resignation. “Indeed, it would not be far-fetched to assume the entirety of the First Dragonborn's life has been thrown off course since the moment he was born, but your continued interference with the natural flow has only added to the stress causing the Break. Though the Prophecy of the Brothers does, albeit _ covertly _, perhaps imply your existence...you are never specifically stated.”

“Speak plain, Psijic.” Dukaan's voice was low. He sounded more tired than before.

“I cannot guarantee your safety should you continue to aid your friends in this endeavor.” Quaranir spit out. “I do not know whether you will survive or not. Everything is out of our hands once you go through the portal.”  
  
Chestnut eyes turned away from him and landed on the portal, staring at it for a long while. Then, with a strained smile, he looked at Quaranir again.  
“I will not abandon them now. Whatever happens will happen.” Dukaan extended a hand and Quaranir took it with a quizzical look. “Time will have whatever it must to fix itself.”  
“Yes,” the Altmer replied, “it will.”

* * *

The black portal led them to a lavish hotel lobby with marble floors and plush rugs beneath their boots. Fat columns climbed upwards to support a gold-leaf ceiling, a religious scene she didn’t recognize painted down the center with exciting colors. A five-tier wedding cake chandelier hung just above them, glittering with gems of all different colors. Strangely enough, the light in the room was immaculately golden.  
“Get out of the fountain, you _ oafs!_” A shrill voice screamed, snapping them all out of their collective daydream. When Tharya looked down she wondered why she hadn’t felt the cool water around her ankles before. In one scrambling motion they all clambered out, shaking the water off their boots. “Good gods, the carpets, the carpets...look at them!” The doorman was lean and tall, with skin the color of worn septims. His ears were razor sharp and longer than any of the Altmer ears in their group, stretching back nearly the length of his head. His skin seemed tightly pulled over his cheekbones, making them razor sharp, parallel to a cutting jawline and a chin that came to a point.  
“Oh, dear...oh dear.” A woman appeared out of thin air, just about the same height as the doorman, but with distinctly less sharp features. There was a pleasant roundness to her cheeks and a gentle curve of her jaw; her nose was wider. “That simply won’t do.” She snapped her fingers and the water rose in little beads from the floor, sliding out of their clothes, off their boots, and then dashed back into the fountain. “Much better.”

The woman’s eyes slid over the group inquisitively while the man still grumbled about his rugs. Suddenly she shrieked.  
“A _ Yokudan!_” She clapped her hands together once, gliding towards Miraak, who leaned away. “Only once has one of you come here. But you are so tall.” She reached up to touch his hair. He scowled. “Atmoran, as well? How interesting.”  
“Vantie, leave him be.” The man extended a hand to her and she sighed, retreating to the doorman’s side. “I should’ve known _ this _ ragtag group would show up in our fountain sooner or later.” He eyed them all with the same amount of distrust.  
“If you don’t mind me asking-” Cara stepped forward, a question ready on her lips.  
“Actually, I do. This is the hundredth time someone has ever asked the question you’re about to ask.” The doorman interrupted. Somewhere in the lobby, firecrackers went off, writing in smoke _ YOU ARE THE HUNDREDTH ASKER!!! _ in front of them. “I’m Parry. This is Vantie. Yes, we’re the original Old and Wandering Ehlnofey, the predecessors of Man and Mer, blah blah blah. A story I’m sure you’ve all heard. You’re here for your twelve o’clock with the Weavers?”  
“Wait just a moment.” Cara spread her hands out. “You’re _ Ehlnofey? _ The descendants of the Aedra, the ancestors of all Men and Mer in Tamriel?” Her violet eyes slowly took them both in.  
“Look, Vantie, we got a smart one.”  
“How have only one hundred people come to this place?” Miraak’s paler equivalent asked, looking around the lobby.  
“Not everyone gets an audience with the Weavers, kid, they’re very busy. And very few people traverse time and space to fix a Dragon Break. Now _ you _ , you have a question.” He pointed to Tharya. “And the answer is no, you didn’t break everything, so don’t listen to that crusty Psijic. As for you two,” now he gestured vaguely between the two Miraaks, “you two...you’ll figure it out. _ You’re _ both going to have a hell of a time-” his gaze settled on Ayera and Erador next, but Vantie hit his arm.  
“Profanity!”  
“Right. I’m sorry,” Parry rolled his eyes. With a clap of his hands six doors appeared, three of each side of the lobby. “You take a seat.” With a flick of his wrist he pinned Dukaan into a plush velvet chair that materialized just as he sat in it. “The rest of you, pick a door.” 

They mingled together for a moment in confused silence, sparing each other questioning glances, talking in hushed voices. Parry impatiently tapped his foot.  
“Come on, people, you don’t want to be late to the Weavers.” He checked his watch at least three times before rolling his eyes. Erador migrated towards the first of the three doors on the left side.  
“These...these are the doors to the Thalmor Embassy.” He raised an eyebrow. Ayera wandered to his side.  
“You’re all a little scantily dressed for that one.” Parry called. “Lookit, this one’s got his arms out.”  
“They _ do _ need to choose a door, dear.” Vantie reminded him. “We could give them coats?” The doorman groaned.  
“Nope. That’s the door you pick first?” Erador whipped around.

“Wait, no-”  
“Don’t be late!” With this parting words Parry flicked the door open and as if an invisible hand had wound around them all, they were dragged inside. It shut with a resounding _ slam_.  
  
“Well,” the doorman wiped his hands. Vantie held hers in front of her.  
“Well?” She echoed.  
“Should we go watch?”  
“Oh, I don’t know, Parry. I feel guilty about watching them struggle.”  
“Oh, you love it.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”

* * *

There was wind whipping at his face, making the tips of his ears and nose burn. When he lifted his hands to rub his arms both were already numb; he was trudging through knee-deep snow and even though it had been winter in his timeline, his armor was doing nothing to cushion the brutal frost. The snow was wet and heavy but it cut his cheeks and lips like thousands of tiny razors. Erador planted himself in the snow just as a particularly strong gust threatened to knock him over. Once it had subsided, he cupped his hands around his mouth to yell, but his voice was immediately swept up by the wind.  
“Ayera! _ Ayera! _ Are you out there?” He knew better than to waste his strength yelling when it would just be gobbled up by the blizzard. But still...shouldn’t the group have landed with him? They were all pulled through the same door at the same time, so where was everyone?

Erador continued to plow through the snow, pausing to shout every so often. His voice was useless against the frozen onslaught. He felt his feet beginning to numb even after the first few steps forward. He tucked his hands below his armpits but that was useless. After what felt like ages and ages of trudging through snow that swallowed his tracks just as quickly as he made them, he felt it begin to thin out. The snow moved from his knees to his shins, to his ankles, before he could walk atop it with ease. The regular crunching occasionally gave way to the _ scrape _ of his boots against a smooth stone street. Where was he? This didn’t make any sense. Towns didn’t just pop out of snowstorms.

“Hello? _ Hello!_” He shouted into the cold, empty buildings. Not a single soul replied. Part of him itched with recognition of this place. This...this was Alinor. He had grown up not far north from here, in Cey-Tarn Keep. But it looked abandoned, devoid of all life...as if no one had lived here for years on end. Alinor had never felt so quiet and lonesome before. It was the glittering, regal seat of power and royalty, with endlessly impressive architecture, the social capital. Everyone was in Alinor, and if they weren’t, they had just left, or were on their way. 

A horrid screech echoed around the destitute buildings, snapping him out of his daydream. Overhead a massive dragon swooped downwards, frigid air rushing from its unhinged maw. Oh gods, no no no. Not an ice dragon. He looked desperately around the city for cover, sprinting to a half-tumbled wall and pressing himself against it. The dragon roared and flew in wide circles above the city, taunting him. Waiting. Watching.  
“Ayera, come on,” he rubbed his hands together as if that would magically summon her to his side. “Dragons are your job!” Erador peeked over the wall to try and find the beast. “Where _ is _ everyone?”  
“We’re all dead, Erador.” A sudden voice made him jump against the wall. Golden eyes fixed him with a questioning gaze. “Don’t you remember?”  
“No,” he spoke softly, pressing himself into the cold brick, “no, you’re...you’re dead.” The woman cocked her head to the side.  
“Am I, Erador?” She crouched and he bit his lip, raising one arm instinctively. “Why did you let me die, Erador? Why weren’t you strong enough?”  
“I can’t kill a dragon myself...I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I know I-”  
“You could’ve saved _ me_. Why didn’t you?”  
“I wasn’t home!” He extended a shaky hand. “I wasn’t home. You know that.”  
“You failed us.”

With another roar the dragon dipped low over Alinor, opening its mouth to create a thick wall of ice down the center of the street. Erador watched in horror as the winged beast circled around for another assault, but the woman in front of him didn’t even seem to notice.

“Varnamea, get down.”  
“Why should I?” Her orange eyes bore holes into him. “You could not save me before. You cannot save me now.”

“No, I’m here now,” Erador winced as the dragon seemed to lock eyes with him, and dropped from the clouds with its mouth open, ready, waiting. “Please, Varnamea. I can save you this time.” The dragon roared. His shoulders jumped. “Varnamea-”

A rush of cold air hit his back and only seconds later he felt a monstrous onslaught of ice and snow hit him, full force, pummeling him against the ground and the wall. He felt his joints pop and begin to freeze up, his arms and legs becoming immobile as he curled in on himself. No, no...not like this. Varnamea remained still and silent above him, untouched by the ice storm that covered him in a thick layer of frost.  
“The Altmer are gone,” she told him, staring down her nose with a look of disgust, “ _ I _ am gone. And you think _ you _ can save me this time?” She snorted. Erador felt his breath steam against his ice encasement, doing nothing to melt the thick layers surrounding him. He was trapped. His entire body was cold, but he was too compressed to even shiver.

“No, little brother.” Varnamea scoffed. “You can’t save anyone.”

Erador stumbled out of the doorway, his hands shaking. From the cold or his nerves, he couldn’t be sure. Maybe both. The warm air hit him like a carriage and left him gasping for breath.  
“Erador!” Ayera’s voice broke through the frozen barrier between him and the world, and a warm blanket was thrown around his quaking shoulders. He sank back against the door with a sigh of relief, hitting the floor. “Erador,” gently she touched his face, brushing frost and snow off his black hair. He pulled the blanket tighter around him and pried his eyes open, tiny icicles breaking off his lashes.  
“Varnamea...” he mumbled, groaning at the throbbing in his head. “Ayera?” Suddenly he shot up. “But she said...all the Altmer--thank gods, you’re alive.”  
“I didn’t go anywhere, Erador. I was with you the whole time.” She gave him a confused smile. “Who was that?”  
“Varnamea...my sister.” He let his man-bun down and ruffled his fingers through his ebony hair. “She said the Altmer were gone...there was an ice dragon attacking Alinor and—gods. Are all the trials like that?”

Vantie appeared just beside them, her hands folded neatly in front of her.  
“Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say. All I know is that the trials are specific to each of you,” she gestured vaguely to the group, “and that you will all enter together, but you will appear alone. The rest of you will see what is happening, but you will not be able to interact with the person who’s trial is underway, nor anyone else who may appear.”  
“So it’s like a sick form of theater.” Tharya grumbled. 

“Where is Dukaan?” Miraak was peering around Vantie at the fountain.  
“He is safe. He will be able to view all of the trials with Parry and I.” She gave a graceful smile. “But please, time is of the essence. Continue on.” With that she vanished again, leaving them alone in the lobby.

The next door was elegant, made of light polished wood that was sanded to impeccable smoothness. Golden hinges glinted and winked at them. Cara stepped forward slowly, feeling Miraak’s fingers slip away from her hand.  
“This is you?” Tharya asked, reaching out to run her fingers over the door before stepping back.  
“I think so.” Cara gave a nervous chuckle. She wasn’t entirely sure, but this door was distantly familiar. Where had she seen it before? She looked at everyone behind her and noted the little encouraging nod from Miraak before pushing it open. Her feet came to a quick stop, almost forced, but she was glad for it once she saw where she was.

She was standing on a cliff. So close to the edge, her toes were even hanging off. But she felt no adrenaline, no rush of fright. No, quite the contrary; she felt free.

Cara lifted her eyes to gaze out over the sky. She felt almost level with the clouds that rolled by, sparing her kind glances and soft farewells. The island was indescribably beautiful this time of year—she hated to see it be swallowed by the dreariness of winter, but nature would take its course as it always had. Even so, she recognized this place, this cliff; this sky and this spring. She remembered it but when she tried to recall it was a hazy, distant memory. In the back of her mind, she heard a voice she’d near forgotten calling for her.

_ Cara...Carawen... _

Her mother’s voice? The realization settled in quietly, before it was overcome with a heavy feeling of dissatisfaction. Not a shallow kind of dissatisfaction; the wet, dark kind that settles in your bones, always there, always reminding you that your life is not what you thought it would be. Not what you want. Her body felt heavy, her mind empty. 

Why wasn’t she happy here? In one of the most beautiful places in Summerset, indeed in all of Tamriel. Here was where her family was, her mother and sister. Why didn’t she want to be carted off like an animal sold at market to marry that arrogant Thalmor pig? Questions her father had asked her, in kinder words regarding her betrothed. Questions she had asked herself. Why wasn’t she satisfied with what she had? Why did she always want more? Why did she want to get out, leave this all behind? Why, why, _ why? _ The voice that called to her now was short, low and distinct. Like a violent gust of wind, it made her teeter on the edge.

_ Cara. _

The elf turned to look at the elegant metal fence that separated the cliff from the property owned by the grand mansion in the distance. She remembered looking out at that fence from her window. Gazing out at the cliffs, at the freedom that beckoned her ever closer. She remembered thinking she would live life by her own terms. Or she would resolve to die by them.

She looked over the precipice of the cliff, and let herself fall.

Cara stumbled directly into a hard body, gasping loudly as her eyes popped open. She was...where was she? With one wild look the elf took in the hotel lobby again. The Imperial City? How had she gotten to the Imperial City...?

“_Dii kest? _” A gentle baritone asked from her side, and suddenly she became aware of the arms that were more or less holding her on her feet. “Are you alright?”

“I...I...” she felt her mouth open and close countless times before settling on a simple shake of her head. “Did you...did you see?”

Miraak gave a gentle nod, but didn’t question her further. His grip on her shoulders was almost painful, it was so tight. “You-”  
“Let’s talk later,” she gave him a strained smile, grasping one of his hands as hard as she could. Her fingers were trembling. She had been falling. She had let herself drift off that cliff, even knowing that Miraak could see everything she did. He sounded hoarse. Had he been yelling? “Let’s get through all the other doors.” She whispered. Erador still had the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and Ayera was still wobbling on her feet a little. The other Miraak looked mildly disinterested, bored even. But Tharya’s pale eyes were fixed directly on her, with an overpowering look of _ understanding_. Cara tried to pry her gaze away but it was too much. Too real. Tharya looked like she knew exactly what Cara had felt all those years ago when she stood on the cliff. Tharya looked like she had gone through the same.

Tharya looked like she had shared the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if there's any dovahzul in this chapter, but big thanks to iunara & thewolfwhowaited for helping me get their character scenes right!!


	11. The Time Trials: Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last set of trials awaits the group; they all learn a thing or two about each other, whether they want to or not. tears ensue and some rifts are created.
> 
> so i should be back on a regular posting schedule after this chapter, but who knows?

“_Lydia!"_

Ayera’s scream echoed throughout the mostly empty chamber. The Dragon Priest combusted with a final vengeful screech, littering scorched little pieces of its papery robes around the floor before its bones cracked and popped into a pile of dust. She scrambled to the Nord who was clutching at the deadly spike of ice sticking straight out of her chest.

“Lydia, Lydia, no,” Ayera felt the storm brewing under her skin and focused it into magic that melted the ice spike away, trying desperately to heal the wound that had no doubt pierced the woman’s heart. But she was already so depleted from the prior battle...she could feel her magicka sputtering and breaking. The golden sparks of a healing spell came erratically, not in their usual flow. “Come on, come _ on. _” She rubbed her hands together and tried again.

“A...yera,” Lydia reached one trembling hand up to curl her bloody fingers around the elf’s wrist. A dry smile touched her pale and stained lips. “Don’t bother.”

“No, no, Lydia, we’ll get you out of here.” Ayera promised, furiously clapping her hands together. “I just need a moment. Stay awake, Lydia.”

“No, Ayera...” The housecarl meekly tried to push her hands away, giving a shake of her head that made her inhale sharply. “I...”  


Ayera watched in horror as the magic that she had pushed from her veins vanished, dissipating into the cold air. She had nothing left. There was no magic left in her, only blood; it felt so odd to not have magic. Her limbs felt heavy, her eyes drooping.

With a strangled sob she gathered Lydia’s body in her arms, holding the other woman close as the last tinges of color drained from her face, leaving her a sickly grey to match the stone.  
“Lydia,” she cried over the Nord’s shallow breaths. Her blue eyes were turned towards the dark ceiling, and they fluttered once before closing entirely.  
“Ayera,” Lydia tried to speak, her voice hoarse and fading along with her. But suddenly, her eyes popped open again, and Ayera gasped at their bright red color. “_Why didn’t you save me!” _ Lydia screamed in her face, her body broken. Slowly her skin began to stretch and flake and rot away, leaving her as a decaying body in Ayera’s arms. “_You should’ve saved me! Failure! Failure! _”

Lydia’s body turned to dust in the elf’s grip, leaving her holding empty steel armor. She felt powerless. Weak. Not worthy to hold the power of legends. A wispy presence bent down beside her but she was too busy crying over the armor to notice, until a familiar voice hissed sharply in her ear:

_ “Failure_.”

* * *

  
With a start Ayera found herself stumbling out of the door to the trial, into the group of her companions. Tears wet her cheeks but they had stopped falling. Erador looked at her for a moment before opening his arms, embracing her with the blanket as well.  
“Maybe we should all take a break,” Cara said softly, “before we get through the next three.” Hardly anyone gave them an answer, but just as they began to break off into pairs, Dukaan appeared. He looked around in confusion for a moment, checking himself and his robes, before spotting Miraak.  
“_Mal zeymah! _” He smiled and embraced the First Dragonborn. “You all look terrible.” He whispered against the younger man’s hair.

“It’s not easy going down here,” Tharya pointed out, “why don’t you get one of these nightmares?”

Dukaan paled for a second before he gave a little shrug. They watched him fumble with the edge of his sleeve.

“I do not know. Perhaps I was not destined to be given one,” he looked to Miraak, “just as I was not destined to return, but here I am.”

“Well. Aren’t we just a trio of destiny-shirking rugrats,” Tharya leaned against her staff, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to go talk to Ayera.” With a little wave the Nord wandered off, leaving the Dragon Priests alone.

“I am worried for you, _ mal zeymah_.” Dukaan said once she was gone, staring down the other three doors they had yet to even approach. “These trials...they are fierce.” Miraak’s golden eyes strayed to where Tharya was sitting by the fountain with the elves and his counterpart.

“I am more worried for her.” He muttered. “She will not take kindly to having some part of her life exposed to mere strangers.”

“As usual, you lack a solid sense of self-preservation,” Dukaan gave a strained chuckle. Something brushed the First Dragonborn’s hand. “Whatever yours may be, do not forget that I am here for you, little brother.”

Miraak looked at him. The smallest of smiles made Dukaan’s heart jump; there was a difference in the way Miraak smiled that set him apart from everyone else, though it was impossible to describe. A relief. A lightness.  
“_Kogaan_. I have never doubted that you were.”

They spoke together until Ayera, Cara, and Erador had all seemingly recovered from their trials, as much as one could expect them to. When Miraak turned back to Dukaan after speaking with Tharya he was gone; most likely whisked away by the Ehlnofey. 

“Looks like it’s just me and you left, big guy,” Tharya examined the two doors in front of them, and then the third, shooting a glance to the pale Atmoran on her opposite side, “guys. Big guys. Who wants to go first?”

Neither of the First Dragonborns made a move. Tharya looked pleadingly up at the Yokudan but he was pointedly avoiding her gaze.  
“_Fine. _ I’ll go.” She made her way to the smallest of the doors, a worn wooden one that looked like it would open into an old Nordic barrow. “Please, make this good.”

She opened the door and stepped into the darkness. Miraak felt the same bland black envelop him, and when opened his eyes again he was standing just behind Tharya on a winding staircase of a tower.

“What is this place?” He murmured aloud, touching the stone and knowing full well Tharya could neither see nor hear him.  
“It looks like Solitude architecture,” Cara supplied. “Let’s see where she’s going.”

Tharya came to the top of the stairs, and a small gasp left her lips. There was another version of her already standing there. Her hair was shorter, pulled back into a little ponytail. Her warpaint was gone, and her face was unscarred. Slowly, her gaze moved from her past self to the top of the Solitude Lighthouse.

“Oh _ fuck_.”

She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration, her knuckles white around her spear. Gods, of _ course _ this had to be the thing about her everyone saw. She wouldn’t mind as much if it was some emotional weakness like the others, a big fear. But no, _ this _ was her past. The shitbag she used to be—of course this is what they all got to see. 

The world around her began to move rapidly, the setting sun vanishing below the mountainous horizon and the moon slipping into the twilight sky above them. Tharya’s past self seemed to be napping until the moon came up, and when she stood a nearly empty wine bottle was in her hand.  
“Oh, come _ on! _” Tharya shouted to the sky. “I know you can hear me! Anything but this. Dick move.” There was no reply. Neither of the Ehlnofey said anything, no Divine appeared to aid her. She watched herself rub her hands together, gazing around the lighthouse rooftop at the hills and harbors of Haafingar in the late evening. 

“Don’t do it.” She whispered to herself, watching the moon crawl over the sky. She remembered thinking about the timing; too early and someone would come to investigate; too late and the Icerunner would have already found its mark and be floating into port. “Don’t do it.” She said, louder, but her past self didn’t move. She was watching, waiting for the signal flare. “Don’t do it, you stupid bitch!” Without a second thought Tharya shifted her grip on her spear and hurled it directly for her doppelgänger.

It froze mere centimeters from her cheek, quivering in the air. Her past self ducked away after seeing a line of red shoot into the sky with a high whine, and then explode before fizzling out. She watched the spell be cast and the Solitude Lighthouse went dim. She watched herself look nervously around the water below before snatching her spear and scuttling down the stairs.

“Drunk bitch.” Tharya hissed, sitting down against the low stone wall, her head in her hands. “You’re such an idiot.”

“You are much too hard on yourself, Throne-Breaker,” a gentle voice said, enveloping her in a warmth she did not want. “No one holds themselves to such standards as you. Not even the First Dragonborn.” She felt a light, slender arm settle over her shoulders. “That should mean something.” 

She shrugged the arm off and looked up but there was no one there. The Solitude Lighthouse was still dark except for the moon illuminating it, but she was alone.

“It doesn’t mean shit. I did bad things.” Tharya muttered, letting her legs stretch out and leaning back against the stone. “And now everyone knows about it.”

“And you are going to mope about it, so long afterwards?”

“You sound just like my mother.” The voice laughed elegantly at that.

“You do not truly think anyone is perfect, do you, Tharya?” It asked, not unkindly but inquisitively.

“Have you met my little sister?” The Nord scoffed. “Or my older brother—or any of my siblings? My parents? Hell, _ Miraak? _ Man’s perfect in every disastrous way. They’re all pretty damn perfect.” She frowned. “I’m just a...”

She didn’t finish her thought. The presence beside her left, and glided towards the spear hovering in the air. Her mind conjured the image of dark fingers gliding along the smooth gold.

“How interesting,” the voice still sounded so close, “you would strike yourself down, without even a second of hesitation. Never have I met someone so...”

“Shitty?”

“Broken.”

“Look, I just want to leave. I can handle the looks and the shunning.”

“It is fascinating how many times you try to convince yourself of that, Tharya.”  
“You and I aren’t a first name basis, whoever you are. Let’s just get this done with.”  
“Very well,” the presence vanished altogether, but the voice remained, “the others have the seen the extent of what you did all those years ago.”  
“They—the Icerunner?”

“Yes. They know you ran it aground to plunder it.”

Tharya closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose. She could work through this, right? Gods, she could only imagine what Miraak would say. She steeled herself for what would undoubtedly be a harsh reprimand...a cold, distant look in his eyes. She hadn’t seen it in him for a long time, but it would come back. She steeled herself for his inevitable flight; after all, who would want to stick around her after they’d just learned the extent of her evil?

Tharya meekly pushed the old wood door open, slowly gazing around the group gathered. Golden eyes bore like lava into her, questioning, shocked, confused. His face seemed stuck in a disgusted grimace. Everyone seemed to eyeing her with a measure of caution.

“That’s what I thought,” the Nord whispered, fumbling with her spear, “let’s just move on, please.”

Surprisingly, they all did as asked.

* * *

The fifth door was debated between the two First Dragonborns until they decided to walk through together. It was the entrance to Bromjunaar, massive and heavy, with a dragon head carved in the center of the two doors. But once the darkness enveloped them all, they were left standing in a semi-circle around the tall, pale Atmoran with stormy blue-grey eyes and a long blond braid. Tharya noted that the Yokudan version of Miraak, _ her _ Miraak, seemed to be standing as far away as possible.

She tried not to think about it.

  


Miraak turned his blue eyes on the wide hallway in front of him. Bromjunaar...but not as it should look four thousand years later. No; the fires were still going, the chandeliers still lit. The rugs whole and soft beneath his boots. So he was not still in the present, then, but rather transported to the past.

Childish laughter floated down the deserted hallway, accompanied by fast footsteps running in his direction. It felt like forever until two children appeared; he was reminded of Bromjunaar’s massive expanse in that time, in its notorious echoing hallways. Morokei had told him once as a child that the echo was to keep secrets out, so that even a whisper could be overheard. Miraak had learned, as he grew and moved from child’s quarters to apprentice quarters, it also was a rather prominent indicator of who had fallen into bed with who.

The two children who came into view were both boys, both with relatively pale skin and one with long hair.  
“No fair! You had a headstart.”  
“You’re just too short to keep up with me,” one of the boys sneered. He recognized that boy; light brown hair, kind but serious features, green eyes... _ Vahlok? _

“Morokei says I’ll hit my _ growth spurt _ soon.”

Vahlok barked out a childish laugh that was trying to sound mature. 

“You’ll be _ thiiiis _ tiny your whole life.” Vahlok ruffled blond hair but the other kid pushed him away. Miraak bit back a sigh. If that was Vahlok, then that other boy had to be him.

“Boys, boys,” Morokei breezed by Miraak to the two children, placing a smooth hand on both their heads, “why aren’t you washed up for dinner yet?”

“We were just about to do that,” Miraak said quickly, nodding once.

“Good, good. Be quick about it.”

Miraak followed his younger self and Vahlok down the wide hallway they had come out of, into the cramped little room they shared. 

“So, will you talk with Nahkriin tonight?” Vahlok teased as Miraak struggled to braid his growing hair. “Or are you going to chicken out again?”

The First Dragonborn sat with a content smile on one of the small beds, hands hanging between his knees as he watched the two.

“_ No! _ ” His younger self yelled, face flushed. “Are _ you _ going to chicken out?” Vahlok shot him an angry glare. He remembered Nahkriin. One of the only female apprentices to pass through Bromjunaar while he and Vahlok had been there, along with Zahkriisos, who was a few years above them and would be carted off to Solstheim. But Zahkriisos transitioned before Miraak and Vahlok even set foot on Solstheim; he was no longer the quiet girl they remembered, but rather a powerful mage with an impressive library. 

Miraak sighed lowly. Zahkriisos was gone now; as was Nahkriin, and Vahlok. And all the rest. He was the last surviving Atmoran, the last Dragon Priest...except now Dukaan had resurfaced with this Yokudan. 

“Miraak! Vahlok!” Morokei burst into the room, looking only mildly irritated. “You are beyond late. Come this instant, and stop bickering!” The pale Atmoran couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. He and Vahlok scurried away from their shared mirror to Morokei, who examined them with a scrutinizing eye. “It will have to do,” the older man sighed, “go, go, before Hevnoraak throws a fit and gives us all nightmares again.”  
“Yes, Morokei.” The boys mumbled in unison. The older man marched them out the door with the swish of his robes, and took one long glance around the little chamber. Miraak felt as if the image of his former master stared right at him before the door shut.

And with that, his doors opened up again, a quiet creak welcoming him back to the lobby.

“That was...nice.” Cara looked confused. “Nothing happened.”  
Miraak still had a serene smile on his face.  
“Things were much simpler in my childhood,” he mused, “I miss it.”

“Lovely.” His counterpart grimaced and removed himself from the group to plant himself in front of the sixth, and last door. Tall and wide, these had been the doors to his temple on Solstheim. They were made of thin but heavy stone, with a massive likeness of Alduin carved into the top segments of the doors, and a larger-than-life figure in a Dragon Priest mask—not the traditional Skyrim ones, but rather the elongated Solstheim model—holding a tome under one arm with a four-pointed star on it. The doors were more a piece of artwork than architecture. Every inch of them was carved to depict _ something _.

With a confident thrust, the Yokudan shoved them open, the low sound so familiar yet so distant to his ears. He opened the doors to his temple fully expecting the high vaulted ceilings and grandiose curtains, wide rugs and shining floors of the past. What he got was a drafty shack blanketed in darkness near the Atmoran coastline. Somewhere, there was a child crying softly. 

Some part of him swelled with recognition. He was _ home. _

Miraak took a few steps into the little house. There was a low fire burning with a pot over it in the center of the room, but nothing was cooking. A splintery table with three chairs around it was tucked in the corner, with a well-loved tablecloth thrown over it. Little trinkets, collectibles, and even a bookcase lined the walls. There were no paintings, and small windows. A dinky shrine to the Atmoran gods he didn’t remember was placed in an opposite corner; the flower offerings looked fresh and the candles had recently been replaced. The ceiling was just tall enough for him to stand without hunching, but he had to duck to avoid the regularly spaced beams that ran horizontal across the room. Despite its ramshackle appearance, the place felt homey, comfortable. Small only because he was big. Whoever was living here had made it theirs, like the signature on a portrait.

A figure burst from one of the adjacent rooms, throwing aside the curtain hanging in the doorway and breaking the silence with his heavy footsteps.

“Damn baby,” the figure muttered, gliding effortlessly around the crowded furniture. He knew the space well, then. “I didn’t ask for a baby. No commitments, I told her. Dammit, Althëa.”

Althëa? That...that was his mother’s name.

A solitary cry rose into the night, and the man groaned deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had been stuffing coins and clothes into a knapsack but now he let the bag drop onto one of the chairs at the table. Miraak followed him into a much smaller room; it was no bigger than one of his closets in his temple, back when he’d actually _ had _ a temple. A dim candle was burnt nearly to a stub on the bedside table. In a sturdy wooden cradle was a bundle of sheets covered by a shawl wrapped multiple times around a small body.

“Good gods, keep it down,” the man snapped under his breath, but the child didn’t quiet. “Do you want your mother to wake up and find us both?” He spoke as if the baby was his accomplice in his apparent escape plan, as if the baby was his partner-in-crime.  
“Obviously the child is in need of something,” Miraak spoke before he could stop himself, but the man didn’t seem to hear him. “And _ something _ is not your harsh neglect.” But the man continued muttering before he strode quickly out of the room. Miraak peered into the cradle and noted a little bundle of yarrow flowers, dainty and white, embroidered into the shawl. He glanced back into the main room of the house, but the figure wasn’t coming back. So cautiously he reached down and picked the child up, bringing him back into the lighted space. The child made no effort to stop its crying, as if it couldn’t even feel Miraak holding it. “Where are you going? This baby needs something.”  
“Damn baby,” the man repeated, shoving some food into his bag. “Going to wake the whole continent up.”

The man stepped into the ring of dim firelight as he threw the knapsack over his shoulders. Golden eyes flicked to the baby’s room, and thus, met Miraak’s inquisitive gaze. The Priest nearly dropped the infant in his arms.

“I am sorry, Althëa,” [the man with golden eyes, a proud nose and jawline spoke,](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/605765395374276626/617490992680927243/7635ebe27edee6eda5a9884bd38e7522.png) his short beard shifting as he grimaced, “for your sake, I hope he doesn’t look like me, like you want him to.” Fury rose in Miraak’s veins. He didn’t know how, but suddenly the child was gone from his grip. He didn’t care. His fists trembled as he stared at the figure across the fire, lips twisting into a snarl, dark eyebrows aimed inwards.

“_You_.” He hissed, and suddenly the man seemed to hear him. He jolted backwards and knocked over the shrine. 

“Who the hell are you?” The man demanded, his voice baritone and strong. “What are you doing in my house?” Without a care Miraak shoved the cooking spit and took a large step over the little hearth. He twisted his hands into the man’s collar, bringing his features back into the light. There was no doubt in his mind now; this had to be him.

“I am your _ son _ ,” he hissed, “I am _ Miraak._”

Suddenly the little shack on the Atmoran coast began to fall away, and he and his father were left in the familiar darkness of the Void, near the grey stream. He was aware of a presence behind him but did not turn or let go of the man in front of him to see who it was. He watched as golden eyes, _ his _ own eyes, but not belonging to him, surveyed his face. His jawline, his nose. The structure of his cheekbones and forehead.  
“Impossible,” the man tried, “I-I never met my son. I have no idea of his name, what he even looks like-”  
“**Look at me!** ” Miraak roared, shoving his father away. The Void trembled at his voice. “Tell me that I am not yours. _ Look at me_.” He demanded, and those eyes shied away from him before sparing him a glance. "_T__ell me I am not yours_.”

“Miraak, darling, please.” A soft hand forced his fist open and squeezed his fingers. “Please be kind to your father.”  
“_Kind? _ ” He barked out a laugh. “I have no kindness for the man who abandoned me, Móna . Who abandoned _ us_. He is a _ rat,_ and deserves to be treated as such.”

“_Dii shulviin-_”  
“You coward,” he watched his father recoil from his biting tone, “you did not even have the courage for one night.”  
“I didn’t want you!” His father cried suddenly, just as angry as his son. “I never wanted a child. She knew that,” he glared at Althëa but Miraak held her behind him like a stolen artifact. “I did what I had to do.”  
“You did what you _ wanted _ to do,” Miraak snapped, his skin bristling with a draconic rage, “you did not even spare a thought to her or me. Your wife, your son. Your _family_.”

“Then perhaps I should’ve stayed,” the man spat, “if only to see that you did not become one of those murderous, fanatic _ Priests _ that forever disgraced the Atmoran race.”

“Jondor,” Althëa pushed her son out of the way, or tried to—he had never known his father’s name before, but hearing it spoken for the first time was...indescribable. Like one of his limbs had been torn off and then reattached. “Do not speak of our son like that. He is stronger than you can ever imagine,” Althëa squared her shoulders, “and he is not one of the _ Dovah Sonaak _ as you know them.”

“That he is among their number is enough.” Jondor muttered.

“He rebelled.” Those two words hung heavily in the air for a long time before Jondor spoke again, eyeing his offspring with a look of mild disgust.  
“What is your name?”  
“I told you. _ Zu faan Miraak. _ ”  
“He speaks their cursed language,” Jondor said aside to his wife before surveying his son again. “Where did you get those scars?”  
“The dragons.” Miraak watched the man fall silent and then begin to fidget uncertainly. “Why did you leave?” The question pinned him down for a moment before he began to squirm again.

“I told you,” he said, unintentionally, in the same voice as his son, “I did not want you.”

“You did not want _ me_, or you did not want a child?” Miraak bit back. Althëa squeezed his hand again. 

“You did not even hold him before you left,” she murmured. Jondor’s eyes widened. How could she possibly know that? “Would you not embrace your son before you are never given the chance to do so again?”

Slowly, Jondor met Miraak’s eyes. The eyes they shared. His face contorted for a moment and Miraak thought the older man would cry, but just as he compressed the first sob in his chest, Jondor moved straight for him and strapped the First Dragonborn in his embrace.  
“I’m sorry, _ uetonga_,” he said, shaking his head. Miraak was frozen. Stiff. What was he doing? “I’m sorry I left.” Gradually, the anger in his veins ebbed away, replaced by...a confused numbness. No. He wanted the anger back. Anger was what he felt, what he had felt for so long. Anger was comfortable. Anger was easier. Jondor cradled the back of his head.  
“_Uetonga_,” Miraak echoed in a quiet voice, putting his unsure arms around his father, “what does it mean?”

“My son.” Jondor leaned back to cup his face, this time looking over his features with all the paternal love in the world. “My son, in Yoku. My language.” He gave a strained smile. “Your language, _ uetonga_. How much you look like me.” With a frail laugh Jondor opened one arm to Althëa, folding her into the hug. “I’m sorry, my little love. You wanted him to look like me,” a bitter laugh escaped his lips, “and his was the face of the husband who left you.”

A wave of emotion crashed over the Dragon Priest. He was in the arms of his parents..._ both _ his parents. Long dead now, even though he had never known his father. But here he was. Apologizing. Embracing him. Embracing his mother. Wishing, four thousand years later, that he had stayed, that he had not left that night. With a strange sense of urgency Miraak untangled himself and staggered away.  
“What is wrong, _ uetonga? _” Jondor asked, taking a step towards him. Miraak stared at the ground for a long time.

“I have so much to tell you,” he murmured finally, “I—so much has happened, I...I escaped Apocrypha. I am Dragonborn, I am a Priest, I am First Mage...but you could not see any of it. There are so many things I want you to know,” he snorted quietly, “someone I want you to meet.”

“For now, we will have to make do, _ dii shulviin_.” Althëa reached out to stroke his arm. “You have a job to do, darling.” She smiled at him. “People are expecting you.” 

He looked at her with tears in his eyes, reaching for her hand. Jondor took his other one, and together again his parents pressed him into their arms. His arms were limp. He sniffled first, willing himself not to cry, but the warm hand rubbing his back broke his defenses. He cried for gods know how long, wailing like a newborn into his father’s shirt. His mother kissed his hair and patted his heaving sides. He had never known this before; this kind of love, this warmth, this tenderness. Althëa reached up to wipe his tears away even as more flowed down his cheeks.

“Be strong, darling.” She squeezed his hands. “Return to your friends. We will wait for you.”

“I don’t want to go,” he moaned, breath hitching.  
“But you must.” Jondor stepped forward. “We aren’t done with you yet, _ uetonga_. Go back to your companions.”

Slowly, with heavy feet and weak arms, Miraak pushed the doors to his temple open. Six pairs of shocked eyes stared at him, but he stared at the floor.

“I don’t want to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mal zeymah - little bother  
dii shulviin - my sunshine  
dovah sonaak - dragon priest  
zu faan (miraak) - my name is/i am miraak


	12. The Last Divine Temple North of the Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the crew encounters some problems that end up costing them an arm and a leg to get out alive; miraak and dukaan make their broadway debut; the college of winterhold suffers the effects of the dragon break; finally, the weavers make themselves known. guest appearance by freddie mercury, comments & kudos are greatly appreciated! enjoy :)

“You! Dunmer.” Rumaea sighed to herself as Ondolemar’s voice invaded her relatively peaceful thoughts. These Altmer just didn’t learn, did they?  
“Yes?” She turned to face him. The golden-skinned man approached and then came to a halt a respectful distance away, folding his hands behind his back. His hood was down, revealing short, light hair that was pulled dutifully away from his sharp features. Personally, Rumaea didn’t find him all that attractive, so the nightly fawning from kitchen girls was misplaced. His high cheekbones seemed to be straining to pop out of his skin, like he was always sucking in his cheeks.  
“The Lady Ambassador would like to hear your progress on the Daedra dilemma.” He said. 

“I found a way,” Rumaea crossed her arms and stared unforgivingly up at him, “but she won’t like it.”  
“Her approval on the matter will be determined by her alone,” Ondolemar reminded in a parental tone, “follow me.”

He led her down the hall and past two guards in gleaming Elvish armor, who eyed the Psijic with minor disdain. She held her head high and ignored them. The click of their boots disappeared as they tread over a long hallway rug that led directly past other closed doors to a set of pale wooden ones, set with intricate metal hinges and locks. Ondolemar knocked and a few moments later, the doors swung open to let them both in. 

“Lady Ambassador,” Ondolemar bowed stiffly to Elenwen even though her back was turned to them, “the Psijic brings news of our plight.”

“Good,” Elenwen sounded hoarse, “send her in.” Slowly, Ondolemar and Rumaea looked at each other.  
“She is already here, Lady Ambassador.”

Elenwen seemed startled and swung around to meet them. A glass clattered onto one of the metal platters on the high table pressed against the wall. Elenwen was dressed in a loose night robe and her silky pajamas, dark circles below her eyes and a noticeable shake to her hands.  
“Is this...a bad time, Lady Amba-”  
“It is a _ perfect _ time,” Elenwen spit back, voice thick with sarcasm, “what do you want?”  
“Well-”  
“I have found a way to cage Hermaeus Mora,” Rumaea stepped forward, cutting Ondolemar off. He spared her a glance. “But it will require sacrifices and a continuous supply of magic. The Psijic Order would never let this kind of ritual see the light of day—Artaeum would burn before they gave up these secrets.”  
“Spare me the enigmatic preamble, Dunmer. Do what you must.”

“Lady Ambassador,” Rumaea raised a skeptical eyebrow, “this ritual _ will _ work, but it will require-”  
“To the Void with what it _ requires! _ I want it done!” Elenwen’s hands curled into bony, quaking fists. Ondolemar caught the Psijic’s elbow and slowly backed her away. “Artaeum _ will _ burn if the Psijics continue to harbor the Last Dragonborn and her Atmoran pet. Do you understand?” They were silent. “Get it _ done! _”

Quickly Ondolemar ushered Rumaea out of the room, demanding the guards let no one in or out except himself. He clicked the lock into place and turned back to Elenwen, sitting hunched on the foot of her bed.  
“Lady Ambassador?”  
“Leave me, Ondolemar.” He bit back a sigh; he knew where this conversation would lead them. He knew this kind of disarray from Elenwen before, though it had been rare in the years since the Last Dragonborn, that blasted Nord, had crashed her party. Had made a fool of her in front of some of the highest ranking members of Thalmor society in Skyrim; in front of their truest supporters. However lazy those aristocrats were—they had to be lazy, if they let the Thalmor invade their homeland and stomp all over them—they would talk. They would spread the rumors of the daring, rebellious Last Dragonborn who had broken into Elenwen’s party and rescued a thief from her dungeons, stole her most important documents. And never even raised the alarm. If the First Emissary had one unbearable peeve, it was looking bad when she was supposed to look good.

“You and I know I shouldn’t.” Ondolemar crooned. He inwardly sighed and resigned himself to the part Elenwen expected him to play: the caring, gentle young man with whom she had ‘accidentally’ fallen into bed with nearly six months ago after _ that _ party. He didn’t know the nature of their relationship, but he didn’t want to. At first it had been purely physical, a nice way to relieve stress. But even Ondolemar had little continued desire be a bedfellow to a two hundred year old woman. The kitchen girls would serve that purpose just as well.

He reached up to stroke a stray, wiry hair out of Elenwen’s sunken features. The amount of age-defying creams and lotions she used gave off the smell of a swampy meadow baking in summer heat.

“That insolent Nord,” she grit out, “that disgusting little girl has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. I will do anything to see her bleed.” It was declarations like those that made Ondolemar lose faith in Elenwen’s leadership with the Dragon Break project. 

“She will,” he promised. He had little against the Last Dragonborn besides the fact she was muddy, earth-born Nord, and that she worked actively against the Thalmor. But he found himself to be a great admirer of the power she possessed, and much more interested in its origins and use than his peers. It was possible to respect an enemy, he thought. Elenwen did not share that sentiment.  
“Go through with whatever the Psijic’s idea is.”  
“It involves blood magic. A great many would have to be sacrificed-”

“And they will be sacrificed,” Elenwen sat up suddenly, rigid. Her little moment of hysterical anger had passed, and she was herself again. Ondolemar silently thanked whichever gods had pitied him. A pressed smile touched the First Emissary’s features. “For the greater good.”

Ondolemar cast his eyes downwards.

“For the greater good,” he echoed.

* * *

The anger radiated off him in thick waves, but Cara seemed to be the only one who could feel it. The First Dragonborn, no matter his nationality, was an expert at concealing his feelings behind the stoic features of his face. Cara almost thought that sometimes he did so to try and make up for his lack of a mask; he had something to hide behind while still giving the outward appearance of composure.  
“Hey,” she glanced below them to where the others were taking their time climbing up the rock face, “are you alright?" she asked. "Are you angry about what happened?" She had all but forgotten about that afternoon on the cliff. With all the turmoil of the other trials, all the revelations and emotion...she had simply whisked it out of her mind. But now he knew about the time she very nearly threw herself from the bluffs outside her family's estate; now he knew more about her past than she thought she ever intended. 

"I'm fine, _ dii kest_."

"I know you're angry," she murmured. "I just didn't think you'd be angry at me." Cara looked away, staring at the rocks before searching for her next handhold, not wanting to face him. 

He paused and turned his gaze onto her ashamed countenance, his anger softening.

“I'm not angry at you, _ dii lovaas. _ Not for that. I'm concerned. I'm angry at...” his gaze shifted downwards and over his shoulder to his shorter counterpart. “I'm angry because I never knew my parents. And I'll never have even a fraction of what he just did. These trials took one of my happy memories, one of the only things I had thought of as my family, they made me relive it only for _ him _ to turn it to ashes in my mouth. Having an absent father is at least a father. He had his mother, if even for a short time. I don't even know my _ Móna_’s name. I don't know if she was alive when I was taken. Or my father. I know nothing about them.” Miraak shook his head. “My anger means nothing. The trial did what it was supposed to do. Make me long for a time I can never return to and make me remember I have nothing and no one. No one but you.” He dared to reach out and touch her cheek. “Are _ you _ alright? When you fell, I-" he paused, and then crooked his fingers back into the cliff. "I knew I could do nothing, and it took them all to hold me back from leaping after you," he whispered. 

Cara searched above her before climbing another few feet, and Miraak followed. They came to a ledge just large enough for one person to lie down on and decided to sit for a break while the others caught up.  
“I..the evening before I left Summerset, something...happened. I just couldn’t take it anymore.” Cara paused to wipe at her eyes, and Miraak found her hand. “My father didn’t care about what happened to me. I knew it would’ve broken my mother’s heart but...but I couldn’t live like that.” She took a few calming breaths, her voice unsteady. “The voice I heard, _ that _ was there, but not the one I heard during the trial. I think it was Mara telling me not to do it, all those years ago. That _ maybe _I had something to live for.” An errant tear sprung free of her eyelashes and slid down her cheek. Miraak reached over to swipe it away with his thumb. “It’s alright if you think I’m weak,” she whispered, “I’m sure they all do.” The Priest shook his head.

“I will never think you weak. You are far stronger to have overcome a hardship like that,” his voice was gentle and sincere, “and if _ they _ think you weak? They simply don’t know you. They don’t know it was your strong will alone that saved my life.”

They began to climb again. This time, Tharya, Dukaan, and the Yokudan were closer. All three of them were discussing the scimitar strapped to the other Miraak’s back, inquiring about its origins. He’d come out of his trial holding it in one hand, and Vantie had offered a scant explanation: _ It belonged to your father. You’re supposed to have it. _ The razor blade whip was now attached to Dukaan’s waist, and every so often he glanced down to make sure his prized possession had not fallen away. Tharya was doing a terrible impression of a Whiterun guard marveling about _ curved swords_.

Miraak tried to block them all out. He wanted nothing to do with the Nord, and even less with his _ ziinmah _ . Cara was first to finally scale the ledge. She called down to him that there was a plateau on the top of this short mountain, stretching far and wide. Across it, a ruin that looked more ancient than Time itself, with a pair of doors standing straight up as if they were still attached to the wall. The Dragon Priest scrambled up the last few feet of his climb. Below him, the mountain trembled a little, and all movement seemed to halt.  
“What was that?” Tharya’s voice drifted upwards. She called down to Ayera and Erador but they didn’t have a clue. “Hey, Cara!” Violet eyes peered over the edge. “Was that you?”  
“No!” She yelled back. Her voice bounced endlessly in the expansive valley around the mountain, before bounding back to her. Tharya spoke to the two Atmorans around her before calling out:  
“Everyone just keep climbing! We’re almost there.” As she did, the mountain rumbled again, this time more violent. Miraak felt the very rocks beneath his hands quiver. Not long after, a deafening _ split _ sounded from the plateau above him, and Cara gave a short scream. 

“_Dii kest!_” He shouted, and suddenly she appeared at the edge, extending an arm.  
“Get up here!” He stretched upwards to grab her fingers and was able to launch himself upwards from his footholds and grab her hand, pushing himself up onto the edge of the plateau. “Good gods, look at this thing-”

An ear-shattering shriek tore his gaze away from Cara and before he could even look, a massive greataxe swung down and cut through their joined hands, embedding itself deep in the earth below.

Miraak remembered looking at where his forearm had been, grasping at the stump and _ screaming_. The wind whistled past his ears as he toppled back over the ledge and Cara scrambled in the opposite direction, shouting for him. The heels of his boots skimmed the rocks before he came to an abrupt halt; he fell for barely a second before being caught again.  
“You got him?”

Above him the Yokudan was dangling dangerously from the tendril of magic wrapped around his waist; it was connected to Tharya and Dukaan. His dark fingers were secured around Miraak’s remaining arm.  
“_Geh_,” he grit out, every muscle and tendon in his hand straining, golden eyes hardset on him, “_z__u lost mok_.” The mountain shook as the creature on the plateau cried out again, and Miraak echoed it as white hot pain tore through his stump limb. Blood spurted and poured free as wine from his veins. There was a clean cut straight through the bone, bearing the fiber ends of his muscles to the air, his veins hanging like limp branches. He turned away just as his stomach heaved. “Climb.” The Yokudan demanded.  
“_Zu nis_, you idiot!” Miraak wailed back.  
“_Ofaal nau dii zek, _ and I will carry you.” 

“Miraak!” Tharya yelled from above, her voice under intense pressure as she and Dukaan readjusted their grip on the magic rope. “We don’t have all day!”

“_Ofaal nau dii zek_,” the First Dragonborn said again, “you must climb.”

Miraak didn’t know how he did it, but through the grace of any and every god he was able to pull himself up the Yokudan’s arm, with most of the effort coming from the man being climbed on. Like a child he latched his arms and legs around his counterpart, who made no protest to his blood soaking into his bronze skin, his grey robes.  
“All good?” The mountain trembled again and an explosion sent debris flying down over them. By now, Erador and Ayera had caught up and were just below Dukaan.  
“What happened?” Ayera called.  
“Something is up there,” the Yokudan grit out, more to himself than anyone else. With a grunt of exertion he pulled himself up and secured his grip on the cliff face. “Did you see it?”

It took Miraak a second to realize he was being spoken to, but once he did, he closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain, trying to block out everything. What had he seen just as Cara pulled him up, just before his arm had been cleaved off?

“I did,” he moaned, and with another huff the First Dragonborn took a step upwards. And then another, and another. “I did.”

“What was it?” Miraak shook his head, feeling his braid slide off his shoulder.  
“A cyclops,” he breathed, “it was a cyclops.”

* * *

“Master Wizard?” Mirabelle turned to see Onmund standing there, a book tucked under his arm. “When do you think the Arch-Mage will be returning?” Mirabelle set her tea down and gave the Nord a quizzical look.  
“The Arch-Mage is never coming back,” she said, “he died almost two years ago.”  
“_He? _ ” Onmund laughed. “She, you mean? Tharya, the Last Dragonborn? She is our Arch-Mage.”  
“The _ Last Dragonborn? _ ” Mirabelle gave a pert little chuckle. “She is dead, Onmund.”  
“What!” He rushed to sit on the empty bench beside the Breton, who leaned away from him. “Tullius has finally tracked her down? How terrible,” he shook his head and looked down at his boots, “I told her not to go, Master Wizard. I told her Tullius would find her if she left.”  
“No...” Mirabelle gazed incredulously at the young man. “General Tullius is dead as well, Onmund. He was killed by Ulfric Stormcloak.”

“Surely you’re joking? The Stormcloaks lost the war.”

With a sigh, Mirabelle set her tea down.

“Onmund, the use of hallucinogens, whatever they may be, is forbidden on college grounds except for educational purposes. You know that,” she held his shoulders, “I did not expect you of all people to find yourself in the evils of skooma.”  
“_Skooma? _ ” Onmund shouted. “I am no addict, Master Wizard! What you’re saying is pure fiction. Brelyna! Come here,” he ushered the Dunmer girl over as she passed, “tell the Master Wizard who won the war.”  
“The Imperials,” Brelyna raised an eyebrow, “why?”  
“And who is our current Arch-Mage?”  
“Tolfdir.”  
“Exactly—_wait_. What about Tharya?”  
“She died, Onmund,” sparkling red eyes narrowed on him, “she died in Sovngarde. Remember, she never came back from defeating Alduin?” 

Without a word Onmund staggered away. He so vividly remembered Tharya leaving Winterhold for another of her little excursions...he remembered begging her not to go because the Imperials would no doubt find her. They were looking for her, and had her face plastered on every flat surface in all the major cities. It would only be a matter of time until they returned to Winterhold to look for her, or until word got out she was hiding at the College. 

But...what if Brelyna and Mirabelle were right? What if Tharya had truly never returned, if she had died in Sovngarde? Part of him refused it, but part of him conjured images of a massive funeral...a grand procession...a province in mourning of its greatest hero...an empty grave. Monuments being built in her name. No, no, _ no! _ Tharya was not dead! 

Not looking where he was stumbling off to Onmund felt the uneven stones beneath his boots trip him up. He hurdled to the ground, books flying everywhere. A vibrant blue light struck his eyes with the force of ten suns, making him lift a hand to shield himself.

“Divines,” he blinked blearily up at the sky. Colored light shone through his fingers. Mirabelle and Brelyna approached from his sides, offering their hands.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Give me the rest of your skooma, Onmund, and I’ll see that the Jarl knows you complied. Perhaps that will lessen your consequences.”  
“I’m not on skooma...” the Nord groaned, letting his hand fall to the side. “But, Master Wizard...is it just me, or is the sun...is the sun _ blue? _”

* * *

The shimmering orb of magic around them rattled as the cyclops roared again, swinging its axe in a circle over its head. Tharya tried her best to ignore it, to remain bent beside Cara and keep her hand securely on the elf’s shoulder. All of them had a hand on her, pouring their combined magicka into her hands as she tried desperately to reattach the Atmoran’s severed arm. She could feel each of their individual strains of magic; Miraak’s was thick and orange, the color of the barrier when he had been resurrected; Ayera’s was a milky white, Erador’s a cool green. Dukaan’s was vibrant blue and her own was a calm beige. Out of all of them, Miraak’s flow was the strongest and deepest. She hadn’t focused on feeling his reserves before but they were incredibly deep, like infinite wells of magicka just waiting to be used. 

Still he hadn’t spoken to her since her trial, not at length. The few words passed on the mountainside were barely a conversation. His lingering look of shock and abhorrence had been unmistakable...but she deserved it, didn’t she? Miraak didn’t know much about her past except what he’d gathered in the eight months they had known each other; he didn’t know about the details of her fulfilling her prophecy, or her interpersonal battles. He had caught her at a good time, in fact. Sober and not a half-step above a cut-rate thief. Vaguely she wondered how much his opinion of her had changed.

Tharya straightened out, eyes opening and landing on the freestanding doors across the flat mountaintop.

Around them the shroud of invisibility flickered dangerously before it vanished altogether.  
“Hey, that’s not good,” alarm rose in the Nord’s voice, calling everyone out of their trance. Cara whipped around and in her arms, the tall Atmoran groaned. The cyclops sniffed the air once before swiveling to face them, screeching in their direction. It opened its mouth to bare rows upon rows of yellowed, razor-sharp teeth. The axe swung, and the monster advanced. “Oh, shit! What are we going to do?”  
“We need a distraction!” Erador cried. “We have to buy time to get him to safety,” he gestured to the immobilized Dragon Priest, “how do we do that?”  
“Someone run around like a decapitated chicken!” Tharya offered. “Or, find a pull chain and soak yourself. That’ll be show-stopping.” Ayera was fumbling around, trying with Cara to cast the ward again, but they were too distracted by the cyclops thundering their way.

“Allow me,” Miraak shouldered his way towards Cara and his double, aiding her with the spell before they were all submerged beneath the canopy of magic again. “You are correct, _ fahliil_. We need a distraction,” there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye that Tharya hadn’t seen for a long time, “I will provide a distraction for you. Get across the pavilion,” he gestured across the flat top of the mountain to the doors, “they will bring us to safety.” There were more words in his instructions than he had spoken to her since the trials.  
“How can you tell?” Erador queried. The Dragon Priest examined him curiously for a moment.  
“Our _ dov _ sometimes know what we do not,” was his only reply. 

“Miraak!” Tharya hissed. Even if he was avoiding her, she could worry about him. “Where are you going? Don’t actually do the chain thing!” Without a word the Yokudan parted the barrier and stepped out before it closed behind him like a curtain. The cyclops noticed immediately as their shroud of invisibility trembled as it shouted; its jaw snapped and eye rolled, and the massive monster dove straight for the Dragon Priest.

[ “_I can dim the lights, and sing you song full of sad things- _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJLrw3sCviw) [”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJLrw3sCviw) he sang experimentally, putting his hands up on instinct. The monster stopped mere inches from his face, rank breath hitting his already blood-covered chest. “_We can do the tango just for two._” They watched as he breathed in, chest expanding, and carried on louder. The cyclops inhaled deeply and then seemed to relax as he continued. _ “I can serenade, and gently play on your heart strings, be a Valentino just for you...” _

“_Ooh, love! Ooh, love-r boy!” _ Dukaan pressed through the barrier to join in, doing a little dance, swishing his robes around. 

“Can you make sure the ward stays up?” Tharya whispered to Cara, who was holding her Miraak tightly to her chest. The elf nodded. “Erador and I will carry him. You and Ayera focus on the ward.”

“_Set my alarm, turn on my charm, that’s because I’m a good old fashioned lover boy.” _ Dukaan and Miraak’s robes swung as they danced around like idiots. “ _ Ooh, let me feel your heartbeat grow faster, faster. O-oh, can y’feel my love heat? C’mon and sit in my _ ** _hot seat of love_**_-” _ Tharya couldn’t even try be surprised by the pelvic thrusts that accompanied those words, “_and tell me, how do you feel, after all—I’d like for you and I to go romancing!” _

The spell flickered in Cara’s hand and the globe of marbled light solidified around them. Miraak became a hazy and distorted figure, as did Dukaan. 

“Alright,” she glanced to Erador and gave nod, “up you go, big guy.”

The Priests seemed to be pouring their souls into the song. Having _ fun _ , even. Against a massive, stinky cyclops who would’ve been content with eating them alive not five minutes ago. “_Ooh, love! Ooh, love-r boy! Whatcha doing tonight, hey boy? _ ” the Yokudan threw his head back, “_write my letter, feel much better, use my fancy patter and I’ll tell you more. _ ” Dukaan’s chestnut eyes narrowed on an orb of shimmering air, resembling heat waves rising off some unseen surface. That had to be the rest of the group. He tried discreetly to get Miraak’s attention, motioning for him to start moving back across the plateau as he went through the chorus again, moving right on and taking measured steps away. The cyclops followed intently. _ “When I’m not with you, think of you always-” _ his fingers tapped the air as if he was playing some unseen piano, “_when I’m not with you, think of me always, I love you, love you—” _

Tharya half-twisted around to check on the two they’d left behind. They were nearing the doors now, but Miraak and Dukaan still had a ways to go. By the looks of it, Dukaan was ready to pull the First Dragonborn by his robes to get him to quicken his pace.

“_Hey boy, where’d you get it from? Hey boy, where did you go? _”

“Come on, not too much farther. Stay with me,” she patted the pale Atmoran’s back. He gave a weak moan in reply, his feet stumbling uselessly towards the doors.

Across the pavilion Miraak spread his arms as if awaiting applause:

“_I learned my passion in the good old-fashioned school of lover boy! _”

The space fell quiet, and the cyclops looked just about ready to snap out of its trance before Dukaan fumbled in his robes and extracted a smooth wooden flute, bringing it to his lips and hastily playing. The huge eye blinked wondrously at them, heavy footsteps rattling the whole mountain like a loose door. Miraak kept glancing back over his shoulder; the left door was propped open just enough for them to squeeze through. Dukaan’s flute seemed to irritate the cyclops, somehow, but they were so close to the door now it had become less of a survival tactic and more of a game.

“_Dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine o’clock—precisely._”  
“_I__ will pay the bill, you taste the wine_,” Dukaan laughed. “_Riding back in style in my Samboon will do quite nicely-"_

“_Just take me back to yours, that will be fine-” _ with a few surprisingly vulgar hip movements Miraak swung back into his little dance, _ “come on and get it!” _

With that, they both bolted for the door, laughter and song trailing behind them, leaving the cyclops to blink stupidly before it realized its next meal had escaped. Miraak paused at the stone archway_—that’s because I’m a good old fashioned lover boy— _and gave a flourishing bow before vanishing.

After a dense moment of listening, the cyclops shrieked again, greataxe colliding with the doors. They quaked, making everyone jump a safe distance back, but didn’t budge. Drowning the noise out, the group turned to look at the bright forest in front of them. The treeline was only a few yards away; a beaten dirt path wound below a stone arch and vanished amongst the foliage.  
“Where are we?” Dukaan wondered aloud, looking up at the pristine blue skies.  
“Wherever we are, there’s only one way to go,” Ayera took a step towards the forest. “Forward.”

“Shouldn’t we rest?” Tharya readjusted the long arm slung around her shoulders.  
“I’m fine,” the Atmoran croaked, “but...just a moment to sit...” Cara brought a potion out of the folds of her robes and Dukaan found a nearby rock to deposit him on. Ayera and Erador sat in the short grass. Miraak found a stone to sharpen his new blade with. Tharya followed the sounds of a bubbling brook to fill her waterskin. 

It wasn’t long until the forest began to lose its charm. Behind her, twigs began to snap. A daunting breeze rolled through the trees, rustling their branches, making them creak. An unpromising feeling began to creep from the woods, reaching her shoulders, making the back of her neck bristle. She _ knew _ someone was standing there, just behind her. She could feel their presence, so when she whipped around, a nose in her neck was not what she was expecting.

“Hey_—_Knight?” She felt a laugh bubble in her chest as the horse huffed approvingly, shoving his face against her chest. “What are you doing here? _ I _don’t even know how I got here, let alone you.” Tharya patted and stroked his neck, putting her arms around the animal. “I did miss you though. Sorry for leaving you in Winterhold.” Seeing her saddle was already attached, the Last Dragonborn swung herself into it and returned to where her companions had last been, too confused already to question the appearance of her steed.

Only this time, there were five more horses waiting there. Two giant ones, one dark chestnut with black hair, and a sleek coal one had gravitated towards Dukaan and Miraak. A beige one speckled with white and chocolate brown was pushing its way between Cara and her Miraak. Finally, a pure white horse was trotting in circles around Erador, and a dappled tan one was basking in Ayera’s love.  
“I think we’re supposed to be going somewhere,” Tharya eyed the path, watching as Miraak threw himself into the saddle of the dark chestnut that had to be at least as tall as him. He said something to Dukaan and they both laughed heartily. So _ that _ was what his laugh sounded like.  
“Follow this?” Ayera came to her side. “Where do you think it leads?” The Nord gave a shrug.  
“There’s only one way to find out. And now we get a break from walking everywhere,” Knight tossed his head smugly, “so I say we find out.”

* * *

They roamed farther and farther into the forest, but never once did it seem to thicken or grow uncomfortably dense. The setting sun was always glaring between trees, lighting their way. The path was wide and easy to follow, even if it was littered with roots and rocks in some places. The Atmoran Miraak had slotted in behind Cara, his skin a ghostly pale and his arm still limp. Tharya had no idea how they had attached his hand again, but part of her was content with not knowing. Behind them, Ayera and Erador took in their surroundings, and in the very back Dukaan was admiring nature, but his eyes looked heavy.

  
“_Ahtlahzey_.”

She nearly jumped out of her saddle at Miraak’s voice beside her, twisting around to find him with a self-satisfied grin on his face. He reached over to take her hand, giving it a little squeeze as the entirety of his palm and fingers enclosed it. 

“Oh,” she felt heat creep into her cheeks, “you’re talking to me?” He gave her a quizzical look.  
“Of course, _ ahtlahzey_.” Her eyes shifted down to the dark tan horse moving in sync with her own. “They are called _ Háralto _ horses. Very strong, very sought after." And then, like a distant thought, he added: "I imagine they died out with the continent.”

“Very tall,” Tharya chuckled meekly. Miraak, however, gave a light smile.  
“The Atmorans are very tall people.” But his eyes told her he wasn’t interested in horse breeds; there were questions lingering behind that inquisitive gaze. “You know I am not going to leave you because of your trial, _ dii lokaal_.” His voice was softer. “Don’t you?”

“Um...not entirely?” She tried to pull her hand away but he didn’t let go, instead bringing her knuckles to his lips, kissing each individually. “Oh my gods, Miraak, everyone’s going to see. They’re right there.”

The Dragon Priest glanced back to their companions, but not a single one of them was watching. Maybe Cara, but she was conversing with her First Dragonborn and watching the trees go by.

“Good.” He smacked a kiss to the back of her hand, flicking the reins to bring his horse to the side, gravitating towards Tharya. He pulled her arm straight and his lips traveled up it until he met her mouth, and very _ noticeably _ kissed her. When he pulled away there was a shit-eating look carved into his face. “They should see your blush. It’s quite amusing.”

“Bastard.” The Yokudan only shrugged, humming to himself:  
“_I__ learned my passion in the gold old fashioned school of lover boy..."_

It was impossible to tell how long they rode for. While it was nice to be off his feet, Miraak had a feeling that his ass would not be thanking him for riding so much after four thousand years of not even seeing a saddle. The forest seemed to be in a constant state of evening; always on the precipice of dusk, with a brazen sun lingering on the horizon but never setting. They crossed through a shallow stream, listened to the birds sing and chirp, watched rabbits and deer scuttle through the woods around them. Flowers and tall grass swayed in the occasional warm breeze. And just when Erador was preparing to complain, the dirt path beneath them became riddled with stone. Outliers of the eventual stone bridge they would cross to bring them over a misty waterfall. _ Now _ the sun began to set in earnest. The moon poked its way slowly into the sky, and as the last shreds of day were scrambling back over the cradle of mountains, a narrow but endless valley came into view. Another bridge made only of magic led up to a long, open house of white wood that seemed to be built between the two mountainsides of the valley, hovering above a second and much bigger waterfall. Two arms of the building expanded outwards past the roaring waters, built into the rock. Every hallway was open and alight with the dying embers of daytime. 

“Good gods,” Tharya readjusted her grip on Miraak’s hand and urged Knight closer to the side of the bridge. The magic below them was sheer and wispy, but no less sturdy even though they could see the fatal drop below. “Where are we?” Dukaan closed in on her left side and she could feel the others group around them, all with the same looks of awe on their face.  
“If we are going to meet the Weavers,” Dukaan’s brown twitched, “this must be _ Poh-Temu-Dei_.”  
“_Últim Goddliek Aquilonia ao Norte d’Astrel, _ in Higher Atmoran,” Miraak rattled off, his voice struck with wonder, “the Last Divine Temple North of the Stars.” And from behind, his counterpart croaked:  
“I didn’t truly believe this place existed outside of the legends.”  
“Nor did I,” Miraak replied, “but it appears the legends are more true than we think.”

Across the bridge that led them to Poh-Temu-Dei was a pavilion with a ritual circle that looked strangely similar to the one on Artaeum. Once they drew closer, three women descending from a curved staircase came into view, gliding past two ghost-like figures holding spears at the foot of the stairs. All three had dark skin, darker than Miraak’s. A deep, smooth [umber](https://chieftainfabrics.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/Lionella-Umber.jpg). And all three had thick but impeccable braids; the woman on the left had hers parted to the right, the woman on the right to the left, and in the center they were parted down the middle. Their silky robes fluttered gently in the breeze and for a moment Miraak felt blinded as the sun’s rays danced over his face. But the sun...the sun had set.

“Dragonborns,” the woman in the center smiled kindly at them, her hands folded in front of her. Her eyes were a beautiful pale blue as she peered through the group to find their non-dragonblooded companions. “And friends. We are glad to see you have made it to us in one piece.” Her gentle gaze moved now to Cara. “He will be healed, Carawen. You need not fret any more.” Dukaan noticed, now that they were closer, that her robes seemed to made less from fabric but more of the sky; wispy and dark like twilight, dotted with winking and sparkling stars. She was...wearing the night. And the two women beside her, who looked to be her sisters...one of them wore the same dark palette but was decorated with the image of the moon, and a faint cloud of dust settled around her feet. The third was near blinding to stare at, golden sandals seemingly made of flares adorning her feet, jewelry of the same make up her arms.

“Never have we seen an assembly of beings such as yourselves in one Age. Indeed, in any point in Time. Never have four Dragonborns walked the same plane of Nirn. And not since many, many centuries ago has a cold Atmoran felt the warmth of the sun.” She looked between the Dragon Priests before nodding to the group as a whole. “I am known to you as Time, the ever-present and unending force which guides us all along the paths set by my sisters, Life,” she gestured to the woman shrouded in the sun, “and Death.” The woman cloaked in night smiled cheekily at them. “You are here for many reasons, my friends. But first, let us tend to your wounds and invite you to dine with us.” Suddenly her features contorted to give them all a pitying look, sorrowful even.

“The rest you receive here will be the last for a long, long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yeah basically the atmoran haralto horses are percheron horses bc they're massive)  
dii kest - my tempest / dii lovaas - my song / dii lokaal - my love  
Móna - mother  
geh, zu lost mok/Ofaal nau dii zek - yes, i have him/get on my back  
zu nis - i can't  
fahliil - elf  
dov - dragon, but in the sense of a dragonborn's inner dovah soul  
samboon - probably a fancy atmoran carriage. i needed something replace "saloon"
> 
> ngl the inspo for the weaver's sanctuary was taken from rivendell 3000%


	13. At the End of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the dragon priests sing some doo-wop (sorry not sorry for this); prime miraak & miraak have a chat; elenwen finally gets her wish through a gruesome ritual; time is officially broken; the squad receives some unlikely allies, and some go missing.
> 
> i'm not entirely happy with this chapter (for whatever reason i just couldn't write well this week) so i expect to come back and revise it eventually. also, even though it's cringey doo-wop, the lyrics DO mean something, and the fact that Dukaan is singing is important, and also that he skips the last verse ;)

[ _ Don’t know why I love you, _ ](Don%E2%80%99t%20know%20why%20I%20love%20you,)

_ Don’t know why I care _

_ I just want _

_ Your love to share _

Tharya quickly whisked an elegant wine glass out of the way of Dukaan’s trampling boots, the table vibrating and creaking under his and Miraak’s conjoined weight as they sang and danced like idiots atop.

_ I wonder why, I love you like I do _

_ Is it because I think you love me too? _

_ I wonder why, I love you like I do, like I do _

She had no idea what Miraak was singing except that it wasn’t _ words _, rather a rhythmic, vocal bassline of sorts. Dukaan’s voice soared with the upbeat tune, both men snapping and stomping like horses on occasion, dancing while narrowly avoiding silverware and plates. They were all laughing, but a new bout of laughter pierced the dark night as Dukaan grabbed the First Dragonborn and they dove together into some clumsy waltz.

_ I told my friends that we would never part _

_ They often said that you would break my heart _

_ I wonder why they think that we will part, we will part _

They almost toppled off the table but narrowly avoided crushing Ayera by catching each other, raucous laughter becoming infectious. She had never seen Miraak so...lighthearted. Care-free. _ Happy _. It was odd to see him smile so widely, so brightly, for so long. Odder still to hear him laugh, a sound that had remained foreign to her until just a few minutes ago. Ayera was in near tears and Erador looked as if he was about to burst his appendix from laughing so hard. Tharya could say just about the same for herself. Dukaan was starting on the next verse when a cloud of unknown energy settled over them and a calm voice interjected:

“I assume you are enjoying yourselves, then?” 

Miraak and Dukaan both went straight as arrows, still in each other’s arms and the next notes dying on their lips. Time gave them a gracious smile.  
“Please, carry on. I came only to check on you all, but I see you are doing quite well.” But they were all quiet as Time moved by their table to stand at the edge of the stone pavilion. “Priest,” she turned to look at Dukaan as he and Miraak untangled themselves, “might I speak with you?” The Atmoran in fuschia robes gave a sweeping bow.

“Of course, my lady.”

Tharya put her hands on Miraak’s chest as he hopped off the table and made to walk by her.

“I can’t believe you just got busted by _ Time _while dancing on her table.”

“What can I say,” he grinned like a bandit, “sometimes traditions must be upheld.”

“Dancing on tables is considered a tradition?”

“Of course!” He threw his head back to laugh and Tharya watched his broad shoulders shake with the movement. It was a low, rich but joyous sound that bellowed resoundingly from his chest. The Last Dragonborn shook her head. 

“So that’s what your laugh sounds like.” Her eyes trailed away for a moment to where Time was standing with Dukaan at the edge of the pavilion, overlooking the left side of the waterfall. The Priest twisted around at the sound of Miraak’s laughter, shock written into his features before it was replaced by morose happiness. Tharya opened her mouth to speak but Miraak beat her to it.

“I am going to find _ dii ziinmah. _ I would speak with him about the trials.”

“I think he’s asleep,” Tharya turned back as Miraak bent to kiss both cheeks. Both? That was new.

“I will be quick.” With that he whisked himself away, whistling melodically into the night.

* * *

“You are hiding things, Priest.” Time’s voice was low and inquisitive when she spoke, but Dukaan could tell she was trying to pry answers from him. “And you do not usually obstruct things such as this.”

“Such as this?” Dukaan snorted gently, fiddling with his sleeve again. “Whatever do you mean, my lady?” Her pale blue eyes flicked to him, the moon reflecting in them like it would off a lake.

“You were never quite like your peers, Priest,” she said with a little smile, “you are much kinder than they ever were. Much happier. I am including the First Dragonborn,” Dukaan laughed at that and Time chuckled sensibly, “but you were never like them.”

“Surely you did not pull me aside to speak of my brothers.” He said quietly after a moment. Time turned to him, pushing invisible dust off his fuchsia robe.

“Will you tell him?”

Dukaan looked out over the moonlit, starless valley before looking at Time.

“_Niid, _ I don’t think I will.” He shook his head. “He does not need to know.”

“You will not survive this ordeal,” Time gently grabbed his arm, “you know this. And still you will not admit to him your feelings?”

“No.” He shook his head again. “No good will come of it.”

Dukaan turned just in time to see the First Dragonborn bend down to kiss the Last, his hand squeezing her hip before he wandered off into the night. 

“Are you sure?”

“I am very sure.” He replied quicker than intended, and the kindness faded from Time’s eyes. “He has found his happiness.” The Priest squeezed a fist into his robes before giving a stiff bow and moving away from the ethereal woman. “I will not destroy that.”

* * *

The room was dark when Miraak walked in, wide shafts of moonlight filtering in just enough to illuminate different circles of the floor.  
“_Dii kest? _ ” A voice in the dark groaned. Miraak grinned to himself.  
“_Geh, dii ziinmah? _”

“**Ugh.** ” Miraak wandered into the room and found a crystal drink tray, a chiseled jug filled with dark liquid. He poured two glasses half-full and walked carefully towards the bed. “What are you doing here?”  
“Gifting you the finest libations, _ ziinmah_.” Miraak extended one glass to the pale man lying in bed. He pushed himself up with a multitude of grunts and groans before taking it with a slow nod.

“The Nord is right,” he said curiously, “you are a bastard.” 

“I am sorry I am not your lovely dark-haired, golden-skinned elf, brother.” Miraak threw back most of his drink and made a face, examining the glass. “_ Dii rahhe_. That is _ delicious_. Burning, but delicious.” 

“Are you drunk?” His twin asked. Miraak sighed, running his fingers through his hair.  
“No. Surprisingly,” he smiled, “I am...content.” 

The pale Atmoran sipped carefully before looking at the Yokudan.

“The Direnni has told me you are upset,” golden eyes surveyed him, “about the trials.”

“Carawen.” The one in bed corrected after a moment. “Her name is Carawen, not the Direnni.”

“_Geh. _ Apologies,” Miraak traced the rim of the glass, “perhaps you have noticed I do not use names as often as I should.”

“_Ahtlahzey _no longer means arch-mage when you speak it,” he gave a nonchalant shrug against the headboard, and that molten gaze hardened. Good. That would be the only payback he would exact, for Cara’s sake. “So yes, I have noticed.” They lapsed back into silence. The Yokudan finished his drink and then looked down as if the glass would magically refill. Maybe it would. He freed one hand to rub his thigh, as if trying to dismiss a sudden ache, and then cleared his throat. His blond twin beat him to it.

“I didn’t know my parents,” tired blue eyes looked down at the bedspread for a long time, “I never met them, I have no memory of them. My only memories of family are Vahlok and Morokei.” Miraak watched as his counterpart smiled bitterly. “To have a shred of the joy you had...of the bond, of the _ closure. _” His fists curled weakly against the comforter. “I would give anything for it.”

Miraak gazed at the ceiling for a damp moment.

“I do not think this is comforting,” he began, “but if it lessens your envy...I do not consider Jondor redeemed in any way.” The blond looked curiously at him. “Jondor—he is not my father as of yet. He does not deserve the title. I saw the hatred...the true disdain he held for me before my mother intervened. He did not give me closure,” Miraak snorted, “he gave me questions that he will most likely never answer. He gave me a cold-hearted welcome after four thousand years. Still, after so long...he despises my mere existence.” His grip tightened on the glass. “At most, he showed me the pain my mother must have endured...looking upon her son who so resembled her absent husband each day.”

He shook his head once.

“I would’ve gone mad.”

Both of them were quiet for a long time, sharing no more words, no more explanations. They didn’t need to. What Miraak said was not an excuse but rather a reasoning; his other self was not happy with the trial, but neither was he. And it had been_ his _. His parents, a reunion of their family...and still it did not bring him the closure he had sought for so long.

“I think we can learn from each other, _ ziinmah._” Miraak looked down at the man sitting in bed. There was a thin red scar on his forearm, but at least it was attached. He looked less pale and clammy than what he looked like in the forest or when he had nearly been thrown off the mountain. He waited for an answer but didn’t get one. Some part of him wasn’t expecting one. Miraak stood and gave his counterpart one last look, taking his glass and placing them both on the bedside table. Without any words spoken between them, he strode out of the room back into the night.  
  


* * *

Elenwen surveyed the thirty kneeling mages with a scrutinizing eye. Each donned their hooded black robes, each had their hair pulled away from their golden, contemplative faces. Each knelt around the ritual circle to create a ring of uniform figures. _ Perfectly _ uniform. In order. As the Thalmor should be—as all should be.

“We are ready for you, First Emissary.” It was the Dunmer girl speaking to her, the rogue Psijic, the one who abandoned the Order to pursue greater knowledge, greater secrets. Elenwen moseyed around the side of the circle. 

“Good. We are behind schedule.”  
“Opening the doors of Oblivion is not a simple task,” Rumaea raised an eyebrow.

“Then why can a half-wit Nord do it?” Elenwen snapped. “Unless your accounts of her actions in the temple at Solitude are false.”

“No. She had an Oblivion Gate.” Rumaea said flatly. “I didn’t see it, but someone I spoke with after the fighting-”  
“I have no interest in a story I’ve already heard once. Continue with your ritual.”

The thirty mages each produced a dagger and cut their hands, pressing bloody palms to the stone floor. They were sitting inside a wide circle of magical symbols painted in blood that was not theirs. How many prisoners had it taken—ten? Twelve? The Psijic stunk of death and there was blood smeared on her robes. 

“Thank you all for lending our great cause your magical strength, once again.” Elenwen strode into the center of the circle. Each mage looked up at her, exhaustion set into their features. But they were proud to serve the Thalmor, as always. Delighted to see the fruit of their labors.

Except this time, they wouldn’t.  
“Do remember that the sacrifice you have made will not be in vain,” she smiled icily. Thirty guards shuffled forward from the walls and took up a position behind each mage. They began to glance nervously at one another, shifting uneasily on their knees. “Your service will be remembered for years to come. All that you have done is necessary to protect Tamriel from its own horrors.” Each guard leveled a sword tip with their charge’s backs. “All that you have done is necessary _ for the greater good_.”

Thirty mages fell without so much as a cry, blood seeping from their fresh wounds and onto the stone floor. Elenwen watched as Rumaea quickly stepped out and away, and Ondolemar did the same. The blood never left the confines of the circle but instead raced towards Elenwen’s boots, covering the glyphs with unsettling speed. The First Emissary closed her eyes as the liquid encased her toes, jumping up her robes like grasshoppers leap from spot to spot. It bubbled and undulated until it fully encased her, and then shot up like an arrow to the ceiling, flattening to a circulating disk. It was...drilling. Digging a portal black as night to a place with acrid green skies and thick towers of books. The portal widened and part of the ceiling fell away, pieces of stone crashing to the floor. Elenwen closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she was standing in Apocrypha, a red filter over her eyes. Her body felt covered in cold slime. Clammy, unseen hands were grasping for her legs, but she ignored it all. Before her was a twisting black mass of eyes and tentacles, though it did not seem to notice her. Hermaeus Mora stared curiously at the black portal opening in his floor. She noticed that the lid of the largest eye was split, revealing more of the smoky blackness behind it. Mora’s gaze did not follow her when she stepped away, confirming her belief she was invisible to his eyes. So this was the one the First Dragonborn had sold his life away to. This was the place...with vomit skies and tar pools, musty bookshelves and floating masses of grey tentacles with long hair. This dreadful, sickening place was where the First Dragonborn had been forgotten.

Unable to keep a grin off her lips Elenwen extended her arms to the Prince. The red filter shifted and the slime slid fluidly down her limbs, collecting at her fingertips. It pulled at her skin and she felt an unbelievable stretch as the blood began to construct itself outwards, reaching for Mora. Chain link by chain link, she felt herself being wrenched closer to the amorphous mass. The blood whispered to her, held the voices of those thirty mages she had sacrificed. Chain link by chain link, it created a single circle around Hermaeus Mora, and when she felt them connect out of her sight on the other side, she pulled.

The blood chain snapped tightly around the Daedra and he let out a gurgling, terrifying scream. Black-green smoke puffed up from his tentacles; some fell dead to the floor, like amputated limbs. The chain squeezed him as he struggled to get free, cursing, shrieking for revenge. Calling her...calling her _ Miraak _. Cursing Miraak’s life; cursing his return. Thirty metal bars glowing with script of an unknown language shot straight up from the tar pool in the center of the Summit, and the blood chains maneuvered the thrashing Prince into the cage like a child throwing a tantrum. A massive padlock clicked shut, and suddenly all of Apocrypha seemed to grow still. Lifeless. There was no sound, not even from Hermaeus Mora. No flutter of book pages. Even the swirling skies grew dark, seemed to stop moving. Far beneath, the lowest tiers of the Summit shook and roared. A faint blue star emerged in the clouds directly above the cage. The chains retreated and snapped full force back into her waiting hands, making her cry out in pain, as if someone had shoved her limbs suddenly back onto the trunk of her body. The black portal opened again; she was swallowed and spat back out into the ritual circle, out of Oblivion.

Elenwen was adrift, at first, she could not open her eyes or her mouth. She had been plunged like a rock into a tank of thick, flowing liquid, but only seconds after she returned from Apocrypha the unseen walls gave out, and the blood finally breached the borders of the circle, crimson waves crashing outwards towards the walls of the room. More blood than before. Now the entire floor was coated in a thin, watery layer of red.

“First Emissary?” Ondolemar’s voice was racked with disgust and disbelief. Elenwen looked at her hands and arms, down at her robes; she was soaked to the bone in crimson fluid. Her hair was matted back against her neck. “Elenwen!” He barked, but she didn’t move. She didn’t reply. White magic danced around her forearms before whipping into place, burning hot chains that melted her robes clean off her golden skin. The pain was searing and she cried out, collapsed to her knees, making the blood gurgle and swish. 

Ondolemar did not move from his place near the wall, and stared only at the red sea between them. Elenwen’s fingers twitched with the hot sensation of pain as it subsided. Hermaeus Mora’s screams lingered like ghosts in her head. His cage in Apocrypha. The emptiness of Oblivion after he had been captured.

“It is done,” Elenwen breathed, her mouth feeling slick and metallic, “it is done.”  
“_What _ is done?” Ondolemar’s voice was hoarse.

“The Daedra has been removed,” the Emissary struggled to her feet, her golden skin coated red. “Now, we must act.”

“Elenwen,” her right-hand man approached, visibly grimacing as the liquid below his boots squealed and slushed with his movements, “what have you done?”

“_I _ have made a sacrifice, Ondolemar,” she watched him look around at the deflated, boneless bodies of the thirty mages lying face-down, “and now, we must act.” She reached out to grab his shoulder. “Bring the Dragonborns to me. Then we may end this.”

A sick smile parted her stained lips.

“Then we may end _ them_.”

* * *

“Alright big man, just relax,” Tharya grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to pry his hands away from his face, “deep breath.” She looked up as Life approached. “What the hell is going on?!” Dukaan was next to join her, falling to his knees at Miraak’s side.

“Calm yourself,_ mal zeymah_. Tell us what is wrong.” But it was all in vain. He could do nothing except muffle pained screams into his hands, body convulsing without his permission. A thunderous crack rattled the sky. 

“Time, Time, Time,” the First Dragonborn was gritting out, “_ Time_, she is broken, _ Time_.”  
“Broken—what do you mean, big guy? Come on, look at me.” Tharya moved to force him up but he shot up of his own accord, red in the face. His eyes were black as night, acidic green pupils wide with terror. “Holy-”  
“Time!” He was there just in time to catch the woman as she crumpled to the floor, another terrible _ crrrack _ deafening them all. This time a vibrant slash of blue cut like the swing of a blade through the night sky.  
“Sister!” Life cried, kneeling beside her fallen kin. 

_ When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped... _

“Hermaeus Mora—the lord has left his castle. The fire has gone out; the silence is too much, too much. Too _ silent _ .” Miraak grabbed Tharya suddenly. “The sun is gone, the dead have risen. The night has devoured the stars and Hermaeus Mora...” he shook his head, whispering out the last words: “Hermaeus More is _ gone_.”

_ As the Fabric is torn and Time is shattered between the Three... _

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miraak. Hermaeus Mora is in Apocrypha, he isn’t here.”  
“No.” He shook her once, voice booming, echoing like it had in Oblivion. Everyone and everything seemed to fall silent. “Hermaeus Mora is not where he should be,” he said in a desperate whisper, “Hermaeus Mora is gone. Time has collapsed, don’t you see? The empire of reality is no more.”

“Time sickness,” Death quipped, “considering he came back from the dead, it makes sense. Hit him.” Tharya didn’t give herself a chance to question before raising a hand to smack the Dragon Priest across the face.

“Snap out of it, bastard.” Her command died on her lips as she watched the black retreat from his eyes once more, replaced by a clean white, his pupils overrun by circular rivers of molten, blood-stained gold. He stared at her unblinking for a long time, face set with a mixture of confusion and pain. He took an abrupt step back.

“It will rain.”

“_What _just happened?” Cara demanded, stepping forward. “One minute we’re all fine and the next the sky is splitting open, he’s deranged and Time is dead.”

“Exactly what you just said,” Life murmured. Death cast a forlorn glance to her sister.  
“What?”  
“Time _ is _ dead,” Death wandered to the edge of the pavilion. “_You _ went bat shit because you are the only one here who has experienced all three of us—life, death, time. _ You _ came back from the dead during one of the strongest Dragon Breaks known to Man.” Miraak shifted his weight off his left leg, rubbing his fingers into his temples. “And you could feel that something, somewhere, was wrong.” 

_ As the First and Last converge at the End of Time... _

“That’s it,” Death looked up at the massive blue streak cutting through the night sky, Time limp in Life’s arms. “That’s it. The universe has been officially thrown off its course; thrown off its axis.” Dark eyes turned, full of sorrow, to Time’s grief-stricken and unconscious features. Beside her, a large scroll began to materialize. An Elder Scroll, but instead of an ivory casing this one was the color of the black and blue, starless night above them. In the center of its velvet skin was a single, glistening diamond, set in an ivory hexagram. A single point of light. “The Starless Prophecy,” Death took the Scroll in her hands and examined it, “I never thought this day would come. The Prophecy of the Dragonborn and the Prophecy of the Brothers have always been...troublesome to one another. But they’ve collided, now, with so many mishaps, in so many different ways it’s near impossible to...to pinpoint the source of this Break.”

She extended the dark Scroll to them.

“You all created this mess,” she said sharply, eyeing the group of them, “and now, you all have to fix it.” 

Death gave them little choice; as Life wept over Time she made Tharya open an Oblivion Gate to bring them back to Artaeum. Cara and Miraak went first, Dukaan and Miraak following, and finally Ayera, Erador, and Tharya stepped through with one last wistful glance around Poh-Temu-Dei.

“Ah. So you have returned,” Quaranir spoke as Dukaan, Miraak and Ayera exited, “however, not through the portal in the field, as expected.” The Psijic gave them an arched eyebrow before gesturing to the two figures beside him, one in a dark mask they all immediately recognized—Konahrik, although not Cara’s—and another much taller figure draped in a beaten travel cloak, scratched and dull silver armor poking through some holes in the fabric. “Since you have been away, two more have joined our cause. You would remember the one I told you of earlier; the one who was delayed due to her own timeline’s Miraak.”  
“Yes,” the pale Atmoran in front gave a nod, “this is her?”

“Veros,” the masked woman replied curtly, not bothering to extend her hand. 

“Whoever you are,” Dukaan examined the hooded traveler in the long cloak, his face obstructed from view, “you have a peculiar energy about you.” Quaranir glanced to the figure before giving a small nod, clasping his hands together.

Slowly, the stranger let his hood down. 

“_Sheogorath? _” Miraak uncrossed his arms. The white-haired man made a disgusted face before shaking his head, combing his fingers through his scraggly beard.

“It is strange that a mortal should know his name,” the man replied, his voice husky and low, “but I am not him any longer. No, you would perhaps know me by another name.” He paused for a moment, and Miraak’s shoulders went lax. He seemed dumbfounded, and just when the man cleared his throat to speak again, a single word escaped the First Dragonborn’s lips:

“Jyggalag.”

The Daedric Prince nodded slowly, his words dying in his throat. Pale, weathered eyes traveled around the group assembled before landing on something behind them.

“I have been wandering both Oblivion and the mortal plane for many years now, stripped of my power since the final Greymarch,” he explained, “the tumult of your Dragon Break did not go unnoticed, even in the farthest reaches of the universe.” He squinted behind them before straightening out. “You are missing some of your friends,” Jyggalag said morosely, and everyone turned to follow his gaze...to Tharya’s staff, standing completely upright where the Oblivion Gate had been, spear tip set lightly against the floor. Ayera did a quick headcount, then counted again.  
“Where’s Erador?” She asked, alarm in her voice. Cara twisted around, but there was no sign of the other elf. Quaranir’s features went gravely pale. The masked woman did not move, but by the tilt of her head she was looking as well.

Miraak stepped towards the staff, glowing brightly in the dim room. Outside, the thunder roared; he could hear the rain slapping the building. Why didn’t his leg hurt? With his eyes he traced the spot where the Oblivion Gate had been, as if he could summon it back, before they landed on the spear again. Part of him wanted to reach out, to take it. Steadily, he turned, confusion written into his eyes.

“Where’s Tharya?”

* * *

“_This _ is not the First Dragonborn, you twit,” Elenwen snapped, looking disgustedly at Erador’s unconscious body. She had since cleansed herself of the blood, but the constant thrum of the powerful magic now occupying her veins never left. Beside her, the Psijic was looking entirely disappointed with herself.

“I can see that,” she quipped back, albeit quietly, “I thought I had grabbed the right person.”

“You have _ seen _ the First Dragonborn with your own eyes!” Elenwen cried, throwing her hands up. “And you mean to tell me you _ thought you grabbed the right man? _ Tell me,” she grabbed the scruff of the Dunmer’s neck and angled her sharply downwards, “does _ this _ look like the First Dragonborn you know?”

“No, First Emissary.”

“No, indeed he is not,” Ondolemar stepped forward to break his silence, shock written into his usually calm features, “but neither can he be of this timeline.” His golden-green eyes were trained on the two unconscious bodies currently lying on their floor.  
“What are you spouting now, Ondolemar?” The First Emissary rubbed tight circles against the protruding veins in her temples.

“I know this man,” Ondolemar looked straight at Erador, “though...in this timeline, he is dead.” Elenwen glared at Erador for a moment longer. Ondolemar looked as if he had more to say but didn’t, closing his parted mouth.

“No matter,” she grinned wickedly at the unconscious Nord at her feet, “we have the Last Dragonborn finally within our walls. And where the Last goes,” she prodded Tharya’s side with one boot, turning her body over, “the First is sure to follow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dii ziinmah - my twin  
niid - no  
dii kest -  
geh - yes  
dii rahhe - my gods  
mal zeymah - little brother


	14. Mortala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter bounces back and forth between the squad & the thalmor, just an fyi)
> 
> miraak and akatosh have a chat; the squad tries to find tharya and erador, who also have a chat; elenwen does some housekeeping with the daedra.
> 
> just so you know, this chapter may feel rushed because i'm going on vacation next week for the first time in forever, and i won't have any time to write! so there will be like a two week break between chapters, but during that time i'll post sneak peeks and other things (i have some OTP questions i feel like i want to post, and a timeline of events) until i get chapter 14 out. thank you all for your patience, your comments, kudos, and reads!!! <3

“Don’t you ever sleep?” Ayera asked the First Dragonborn. He was sitting completely still in front of the vertical staff, cross-legged and hands folded one atop the other. The room was dark except for the vibrant golden glow of the spear, framing his back like sunlight.

“I do,” Miraak replied, not opening his eyes, “but not as of late.”  
“Yeah,” Ayera sighed, slinking down to sit against the wall, “me neither.” 

They were both quiet for a long time. Ayera stared glumly at the spear, thinking only of the blue Oblivion Gate that had been there before. Of the sanctuary. Of the last time she had seen Erador.

_ “Isn’t this place beautiful, sundust?” Erador settled into the marble bath beside her, taking in the sanctuary around them. He reached back to undo the loose bun of his ebony hair. _

_ “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Ayera smiled, rubbing her slender fingers against his scalp. Erador draped his arms over the ledge of the wide bath. _

_ “I could stay here forever,” he groaned. _

_ “Here, or in the bath?” _

_ Green eyes smiled kindly at her, and the ex-Thalmor leaned forward to kiss her chastely. _ _  
_ _ “With you, of course.” _

“Can I ask you a question?” She queried the darkness.

“As long as it is not a vacuous one.” 

“Why do you come to meditate every night?” Ayera curled her knees up towards her chest. “What do you think it’ll accomplish? It’s been three days.” Finally golden eyes opened to look at her, bright and piercing against the dimness. But...tired.

“The spear is not a weapon,” Miraak said after a moment of thought, “but an extension of her will. Of her self. Meditating near it, and thus near _ her_...” he closed his eyes again, brow twitching, “brings me closer.”

“To?”  
“I am not sure yet.”

He could feel Ayera sit there for a while longer, and when he opened his eyes again she was drifting off to sleep against the wall. Part of him didn’t care, but the part of him that had been overrun by the Last Dragonborn’s humanity stood and extended a hand to her.  
“_Fahliil_,” he said quietly, and she blinked bleary eyes up at him, “you should return to bed.” Ayera murmured something under her breath before taking his hand, pulling herself up with it.

“Thanks,” she yawned. He let go and she glanced back at the spear one last time. “Uh...is that supposed to be happening?” Miraak turned to follow her pointed gaze to Tharya’s weapon vibrating so quickly in place it was little more than a blur shaking tightly. 

“No,” he approached the spear as it began to lean towards the left wall, “no, that should not be happening.” Miraak put his hands in a hesitant berth around the golden lance, unwilling to touch it.

“What’s going on?” Ayera leaned around him. “Maybe we should...grab it? Why’s it shaking?” The Dragon Priest hesitated as the spear leaned further.

"No, I cannot touch it." Miraak took a step back.

"You have to, it's going to fly away!" 

"I _ cannot! _ You don't understand, it is... _ enchanted_, it is _ blessed_, it is a holy relic of Auri-El, I am unworthy of-"

"Grab it!" Ayera shrieked as the spear flew up and made a bullet line for the wall. 

“I _ can’t! _” Miraak shouted back, but even as he spoke those words his hands flew out on reflex to snatch the spear from midair, yanking it backwards. He backpedaled straight into Ayera, who grunted and barely caught herself from a tumble to the floor.

A hush fell over the pair, and with wide eyes Miraak looked slowly down at the glowing spear grasped tightly in his fists. He nearly dropped it on instinct but his fingers...wouldn't let him. A rush of divine, burning power leaped up his arms, and for a moment the veins below his skin turned the color of liquid gold, hands shaking. His skin crawled with the touch of a million spiders dancing over him, a terrible shudder racking his spine, his stomach knotting.

And then, it all vanished.

“_Faithful..._” a hoarse whisper danced through the room.

The Dragon Priest swiveled around to look at Ayera, one eyebrow arched high.

“I _ can_.”

* * *

“Bring her up.”

With a yank one of the guards in the room pulled the Last Dragonborn up by her soaked blonde hair. She gasped and coughed violently for air, chest heaving. Water dripped off her nose, her lips, her hair, her eyelashes, all little droplets joining the growing puddle at her knees.  
“Drown me all you want,” she said hoarsely, “this is the first bath I’ve taken in ages.” With a weak movement Tharya half turned to look at the Thalmor standing around her, shaking her head. “So honestly, you’re doing me a favor.”  
“How unfortunate, then. You still _ stink_.” The Justiciar did not seem at all amused by her little joke.

“Gods, I hope that wasn’t your best comeback. Even Miraak does better, and he’s five thousand years old.”

“If the First Dragonborn is half as easy as you were, we’ll be just fine.” The Justiciar in black robes sneered back. He looked at the guards and then jerked his head towards the wide metal bucket filled with searing water.

“Hold on hold on-” her words were cut off with a gargle as painfully hot water entered her mouth, forcing its way down her throat. She couldn’t cough or choke, not underwater like this, but on reflex she inhaled through her nose. Water shot up into her nostrils and her eyes burned.

_Gods damn it all, big man, if there’s any time to hear me it’s _ ** _now_****.**

She thrashed against it, feeling her bound hands strain at their biting rope bindings, knees ramming into the base of the tub. The vibrations sounded both deafening and faroff, rippling through the water as she tried desperately to retain what precious little oxygen she’d not already let slip away. Her heartbeat shouted rhythmically in her ears, pounding, _ ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum_, slowing. Slowing. _ Slowing_. Her body felt heavy. It jerked without her brain entirely registering the movements. And then, they wrenched her up again.

Tharya couldn’t find the strength to even cough; she merely crumpled into the heap the Thalmor left her in on the floor, closing her eyes. Water left her lungs of its own accord. There was no sound in the room except her labored breathing, the steady _ drip, drip _ of water. Hesitantly she extended her magic, feeling the area as best she could. There were other magical presences here, but they didn’t feel...alive. They didn’t feel like they were on this plane of existence at all. But she ignored those, focusing on the building itself, the stone, the very bones of the earth this structure sat on. 

It was warded. Her magic was forced abruptly back at what she guessed to be the outermost walls of the Thalmor headquarters, rebounding off it like a flower ripped up and thrown by a hurricane. There were heavy, strong wards that even she had never felt before, not from herself, not from anyone she’d met, not even from Miraak. This place was so heavily guarded by magic, it was impossible to squeeze even the littlest thought out. Well, that explained why her spear wasn’t coming when she tried for it earlier. But maybe, if she could find a weakness, a thinning in the ranks, she could strengthen a string of magic enough to get it to Artaeum, to anyone...

“_Why _ the hell are you doing this?” She choked out. “What could I possibly tell you that you don’t already know? You’re the Thalmor, you got your dicks in everyone and their neighbor’s business.”  
“The First Emissary is rather excited we captured you, Throne-Breaker.” The Justiciar shouldered past the guards and stood just so his boots occupied her line of vision. “She would like to repay you for your little stunt you pulled at her party.”

“Good _ gods_,” Tharya rolled onto her back with a groan, closing her eyes against the light, “that had to be nearly three years ago.”

“The Thalmor remember their enemies,” the man said in a voice full of enigmatic eloquence, like he was reading the script of a drama play.  
“That so? I thought you guys were just a bunch of old geezers.” Tharya chortled.  
“Your insolence will get you nothing but a swift death, Dragonborn.”

“I’m starting to hear that from a lot of people.” 

“Now tell _ me _ something, Nord,” the Justiciar lifted a foot and tilted her chin up with the toe of his boot, pressing the sole down on her throat, “what makes you think you’ll survive this?”

Slowly, Tharya grinned up at the Altmer.

“Your boyfriend can’t turn into a dragon.”

* * *

“It is odd to sleep alone after so long, isn’t it?”

Before he could even blink the tip of a spear was pointed directly at his throat, a tense Atmoran with glowing eyes and ridiculous bedhead staring him down.

“Please, my son,” Akatosh snorted, tipping the spear away with one finger, “she threatened me with the same little trick months ago.”

“_She _spoke to Auri-El, not you.”

“A long story, that one. All you need to know is that we are one in the same. Mostly.”

Miraak surveyed the god of time closely before retracting the spear, leaning back against the headboard and placing it across his lap.

“Why are you here? If you’ve come to the rescue, you are forty-four thousand years too late,” he sneered. Akatosh’s calm features fell to darkness.

“I am well aware of my mistakes, Miraak.” He stood from the foot of the bed, meandering towards the crackling fire. “But I am not here to discuss them with you.”

“Of course you aren’t,” the Atmoran laughed smugly, “what greater mistake is there than leaving your firstborn to rot in Oblivion for millennia that you wish to discuss, o Heavenly Dragon-Father?” 

“Your arrogant wit will get you nowhere,” Akatosh drew himself up to his full height, his back to Miraak, “I thought you would’ve learned that by now.”

“I have learned many things, _ Bormahu_, but chief among them I have learned your cowardice and weakness to be your most damaging qualities.” Miraak laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back.

Akatosh half-turned to him.

“Then you have no interest in what I’ve come to say to you, my son?”

“None,” the First Dragonborn quipped, “I owe nothing to you, Bormahu. I know who saved me from Apocrypha—and it was not _ you _ . It has never been _ you _.” The deity chuckled emptily to himself, sinking into one of the elegant chairs near the fire.

“You know, when I was creating you, I thought perhaps I should have one of the other Divines bless you. Shor, maybe, for your inevitable life as a priest. Stendarr—Mara, even, to ensure that your power would not be used for ill.”

“Do you believe a rebellion against dragon overlords ill? Or perhaps fighting for my life against a Daedric Prince?”

“No, my son.” Akatosh said quietly. “The other Divines thought it troublesome, to gift the dragonblood to Man. They favored heavenly intervention rather than tweaking the course of Time—to be rid of the Cult. We had seen the future before I put you together; it was a future cloaked in fire. And thus, someone was needed to quell the threat of my dragons...to topple their scorched reign. Someone who could kill them so totally, the others would hopefully bend.

“So I made you, my son. Zenithar, in his kindness, forged you from the clay of Ancient Yokuda. I simply needed vessels to carry you into the world—and so, your lovely mother was chosen.” Akatosh smiled absently. 

Miraak was silent for a minute, staring at the fire.

“Why did you not set my path before?” He asked finally. “If I had such a purpose...why would you not do everything you could to make me achieve it?”

“Because the moment I put you into the world, my son, _ she _was born as well. She was destined, four thousand years later, to come into the world, the last of an ancient and powerful bloodline. And I could not interfere with her destiny, because the world needed to be promised their Last Dragonborn. Alduin could not be allowed to shirk the prophecy created for him, and if I had interfered...then four thousand years later, the Last Dragonborn may not have surfaced as she was supposed to. You are bonded, the two of you. One cannot exist without the other; you are the bookends of a legacy. The First and Last.”

Akatosh folded his fingers together, a slow smile crossing his face. “If I had known how handsome you’d become, I would’ve made the Last Dragonborn a man.” Akatosh laughed. Miraak gave a light shrug.

“It would not have changed what you think it would.”

The God of Time eyed him.

“I truly do not know you enough, my son, my mortal firstborn.” He shook his head. “Although, it was Kynareth who gave you your looks. She wanted the First to be perfect. To see you so scarred...well, she is rather sad about it.”  
“These scars are a testament to your neglect,” Miraak snipped, “perhaps you should regard your _ test subjects _ with greater care. But there will not be a next time, will there? You mean to bind Tharya to Alduin for eternity. Forever completing the cycle of the prophecy.”

“You will both find Sovngarde agreeable, I think.” Akatosh dodged the question, and then heaved a sigh. “No matter. You know the spear will answer to you, now, and that is what matters. And you are all on the correct paths,” he nodded to himself, but his next words fell short when he looked outside. “I should let you rest. I can’t see what your future holds, my son, but it will not be easy these next few days. I will return to you tomorrow.”

Before Miraak could even reply, Akatosh vanished, leaving the popping of the fire the only sound in the room. Slowly he laid down again. No, it wouldn’t be easy. But he had never been one to deny a challenge.

* * *

“You still alive in there, Throne-Breaker?”

Tharya groaned in response, feeling her head. Blood had dried and crusted at her temple from whenever the Thalmor had returned her to the cell, and she could feel a tender wound just below her hairline.

“Sunshine and rainbows,” she muttered back, turning on her side, “how long has it been?”  
“Since they threw you back in? A few hours.” Erador sighed and Tharya could hear the scraping of his boots as he walked towards the wall dividing their cramped, filthy cells. “Can I ask you something?”  
“Go ‘head.”  
“_Throne-Breaker. _ Where’d that come from?”

Tharya struggled onto her hands and knees, her breathing labored, the dirt biting at her hands. A wet cough fought its way from her throat, parting her tingling lips. Even hours after, the numbness of the hot water lingered on her cheeks and mouth, her nose. Everything felt _ heavy_, like she was weighed down by large stones. She didn’t know how she managed it, but somehow she dragged her body to the wall, falling limp against it with a weak cough.

“Well, I broke a throne.” Erador laughed shortly on the other side of the rock. 

“Go figure.”

“I’m not sure if Ulfric is as much a tyrant in your world as he is in mine-”  
“Oh, definitely.” The elf shook his head, picking dirt and tiny pebbles off his palms.

“I joined the Stormcloaks once I defeated Alduin; my brother and I joined together. Jorstus—that’s my brother—got himself an officer’s rank pretty early on, but Ulfric didn’t exactly put me in the army. He wanted me to be his...I don’t know, secret weapon, I guess. I went wherever the fighting was, wherever the battle had to be won.”

“Did you use your Voice?”

Tharya closed her eyes.

“Yeah,” she muttered, “I shouldn’t have, but I did.” What had Arngeir always said? Always he had preached for the proper use of the Voice, never to raise it against others, never to use it for harm. And always, she had told herself she would do just that; the skeletons and draugr she fought in dungeons didn’t count. Right? But Shouting Imperial soldiers off the high walls of their forts...belching fire at them, using her Voice to make their end swift...letting _ Ulfric _ use her Voice for his own gain. “But I left the Stormcloaks when they won the war.”  
“What for?”  
“I just didn’t want to stay. I went home to Whiterun for a while, but then I was attacked by cultists, and I left for Solstheim...” she smiled blankly, “after Miraak and I dealt with the vampires, we had some down time, so we went back to Whiterun. The Stormcloaks had taken the city over,” she thought of the ashes of her house lying in the eastern fields of Whiterun, the charred remains of wood dissolving into the singed grass, “and I knew I had to get rid of Ulfric.” _ My name-brother_. “I challenged him the way he challenged Torygg, used my Shout to slow time down, and—and I killed him.” The Nord stared at the thin line of moonlight drifting onto the floor of her cell. The moonlight almost hurt to look at; she hadn’t transformed in so long, she couldn’t even remember the last time. _ I’ll get myself cured when I get out of here_, she promised, knowing somewhere in the back of her head she wouldn’t. No matter how many times she said it to herself, or to Miraak, to her family, to her friends, she wouldn’t. Not this time. “When I did, I shattered his throne.”

Erador hummed thoughtfully on the other side of the wall. Tharya inhaled slowly; he smelled like dirt, just like she did, but also like freshly rained-on grass. Crisp, winter air. _ No, good gods, stop it. You can’t turn in this cell, the Thalmor will put you down_.

“You should talk to Ayera,” the elf suggested, “she hates Ulfric probably as much as you do. He’s been hunting us down for months now.”

“Maybe I will.” Tharya nodded. “For now I think I’m going to try and see if I can sleep in this shithole.”  
“Good idea,” Erador touched the wall.

“Actually, can I ask _ you _ a question?” He blinked as if Tharya was sitting right there and could see him, and then gave a light shrug.  
“Sure?”  
“How do you know Ondolemar? I heard your conversation when he came by earlier.”

_ I did not think this Dragon Break would return your likeness to my eyes, old friend. I am not sure if it gladdens me or not, to see you again. _

“We were friends,” Erador felt his voice grow cold, “once. A long time ago.” Tharya was silent for a long time, and then he heard scraping and shuffling as she moved around. Next time she spoke, her voice was farther away.

“Sorry for asking.”

* * *

“Thank you all for listening,” Auri-El clasped his hands together and gave a gracious nod, “as I said, I cannot aid in the rescue of your friends...but I can at least provide you with a plan to locate them. And reach them, if at all possible.”

“We will make it possible.” Dukaan said with an encouraging smile. 

“Are we sure this will work?” Quaranir asked from Auri-El’s side. In the dim early morning they had all gathered outside at the god’s request; apparently he was going to help them track down their missing companions. Miraak silently scorned the god for choosing to abandon them in the rescue effort; his help would be invaluable, but it was just like a god to back out when you need them.

“The spear is hers, and it is safe to assume they are being kept in the same place,” the elven god nodded, “we should be in the clear.” He gestured to Miraak who gave the weapon an experimental twirl.

They watched as Miraak pressed the spear between his palms and then moved his hands outwards, tendrils of blue lightning connecting from his fingertips to the weapon. Wisps of orange magic danced up his arms.

“This will help us get them back?” Ayera asked. Miraak nodded.

“With your blessing,” he glanced to Auri-El, “this spear will breach anything blocking us from Tharya and Erador.” The elven god nodded. 

“With my blessing, and your magic,” he corrected, and from somewhere behind Veros gave a doubtful snort, “there is nothing that will block it.” 

Miraak’s hands snapped inwards and he grabbed the spear, slamming it with all the might in his body three times to the ground. The stone beneath their feet cracked and the sky grew black in an instant. Thunder rumbled venomously in the sky. Blinding light danced from behind them, scuttling across the sky, and splitting with a bone-rattling screech across the horizon.

The Priest readjusted his feet, sliding one foot behind him, angling his body back, one arm extended and the other holding the spear close to his ear.

He closed his eyes.

“_There._”

With a grunt he hurled the spear in a wide arc into the black clouds, directly towards where the distant lightning strike had been.

They all stared as it shot off, disappearing into the grim sky...and then came back to them, whistling through the cool air and burying itself into the stone between the First Dragonborn’s boots.  
“It...it did not work?” Auri-El asked aloud, shaking his head. A hushed, dreadful silence fell over the group, until:

“I can see it _ didn’t work, _” Miraak barked, “why not? Are you not a god?”

“I don’t know,” Auri-El murmured, staring dumbstruck up at the sky. “It should have.”

“Well it didn’t,” said Veros, who seemed rather unimpressed with the whole charade, “though I suppose yelling at each other will do the trick.”

“What, you do not know if you are a god?”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“Go easy on him,” Cara interjected, “obviously something went wrong.”

“Let’s try again,” Ayera suggested.

“Try _ again? _ ” Veros spun on her heel, but her arms stayed crossed, her shoulders squared. “Reality, Time as we know it is _ gone_. This _ didn’t _ work. We don’t have time to try useless plans over and over again.”

“I have no need for your help, elf.” Miraak snapped at Cara.

“Tread carefully, _ ziinmah._” Miraak’s counterpart stepped forward, a frown etched into his features.

Dukaan watched as their fighting devolved into chaos, words trampling over each other, voices rising. No, no...this wouldn’t get them anywhere.

“Enough,” he called out, but no one seemed to listen, “_enough! _”

They fell quiet.

“You two should have known this from the start,” he gestured to the two First Dragonborns, “you remember the myths, the stories about blood magic. Its strength. Its power to undo the past and reshape the future—to draw blood even from the gods.” He strode forward. “This is a holy weapon. Between your magic and your divinity it should not have failed. So there is only one reasonable explanation that it did,” Dukaan looked up at the dark sky, “the Thalmor have practiced blood magic.”

Ayera felt her stomach twist.

“But...with whose blood?”

“Well,” a gravelly voice made them all jump; Jyggalag, who had been absent up until this point, was approaching, “there is only one other thing strong enough to cancel out the power of a god.”

* * *

“Ellllenweeeen,” a voice behind her sang, the impeccable syllables of her name all slurred together. The First Emissary grimaced. She was still feeling _ out of sorts _ from her _ ordeal _ earlier, and the last thing she wanted was to deal with this filthy Daedra. 

“You just dodged a spear, you know. Big angry one, would’ve killed you all in one hit.” The Daedra chortled. Elenwen forced a prim smile, turning from her desk and lacing her fingers together.  
“I suppose you have come to collect payment?”  
“Oh, you make it sound so...business-y,” the Daedra snorted, “think of it as..._doing a favor_. I keep the outside world away from you, you keep up the bargain.”

“Yes, of course.” The First Emissary nodded once, taking the proffered ledger from the Prince and placing it on her desk. She flipped past pages that already held her bloody handprint and signature below; however many weeks, months of this arrangement had already flown by. Once it had irritated her, but now it was simply, as the Daedra said, business.

She took the letter opener on her desk and sliced a line in her palm. The pain barely phased her anymore. The feeling of her cut skin brushing her untouched palm as she rubbed her hands together to bloody her fingers didn’t irk her anymore. Looking up at the Daedra’s liquidy red eyes, she pressed her palm to a clean page, leaving a near perfect likeness of her hand in blood there.

“I wonder if that’s how the Dark Brotherhood does it,” he mused. Elenwen ignored it and took her quill to sign her name below. “Gross, but thanks for not backstabbing me. I mean, that wouldn’t end well anyway, for you at least.” Without ceremony he snatched the book up. “Pleasure to work with you, as always, Lady Ambassador.” He gave her a canine grin, swiveling on his heel to mosey back to his Oblivion Gate. Elenwen could feel the heat radiating off it behind her.

The Daedric Prince shuffled to a stop and then cocked his head to the door, as if listening for something.

“Something wrong?” Elenwen called, slowly realizing the presence he could probably feel.

“Not a thing,” he said slowly, “not. A. Thing.” The Prince turned to grin at her. “Lovely night to you, First Emissary.”

  
“You as well,” Elenwen gave a light bow, grimacing to the floor, “_Lord Sanguine_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fahliil - elf  
bormahu - dragon name for akatosh
> 
> sanguine? betraying tharya? what's that all about?


	15. The Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends! i decided i would post the rescue chapter in two parts, that way it's easier to read. and yes, i am back from vacation where i got a surprising amount of writing done but no tan, so here we are! sorry not sorry for the super gay scene in the middle. :)

“Even the Psijic must see that this is pure chaos.”

Jyggalag sighed, outstretching his legs towards the fire. He spared Veros a glance.  
“How so?”

“The others assembled are not united,” she pointed out, “they all only care about themselves. They all only look after themselves, and what _ they _ think is best to do. The Redguard is hellbent on vengeance and the others are waiting for some divine intervention. That other Dragon Priest has his head in the clouds.”  
“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps they are feeling strained—they have been through much before we arrived.”

“That is no reason to waste time.” The Dunmer scoffed. “These fools won’t get anything done if they can’t listen to each other.” Jyggalag was quiet, staring thoughtfully into the flames. “And then we’ll all be done for.” Veros was uncertain whether or not Quaranir saw the dreadful state of his miniature Dragonborn army, but she did. Not one of them seemed to even remember that Time was broken, not with two of their companions missing. Apparently they could not divide and conquer, not split up their resources to deal with the multiple problems currently presenting themselves.

“Look,” she said, and Jyggalag looked. Blue light streamed down into the room from Mnemoli, who rivaled the moon in size and luminance now, “the North Star is the only thing left in the sky.”

“Soon, even that will vanish.” The ex-Daedra sighed. The pair settled back into silence for a long time, before Veros stood.

“I hope this rescue mission is worth all the trouble.”

The next morning marked a week since _ Tharya _ and _ Erador _—names she had heard spoken infrequently, but enough to know they were the two missing—had been captured. Every time she passed the First Dragonborn with golden eyes he looked as if he was steeling himself for battle; every time she passed the snowy-hair elf she looked as if she was mourning and mildly irritated. They had been less than pleasant, and the golden-eyed Redguard harbored growing animosity towards the others, especially the dark-haired Altmer.

_ "Before you say something you regret, I know you're worried, I know you're angry-" _

_ "You know nothing of what I am feeling, your pathetic 'gift' or not.” Miraak snapped back, feral anger engraved in the tight crease of his brow. _

_ His twin took a step towards him, anger etched onto his pale face, but Cara gently took his forearm. _

_ "Tharya is my friend, Miraak. I care about her, Erador too. But before you say something you don't mean, just think of Tharya. She wouldn't want us at each other’s throats. She wouldn't want you to be angry because she was taken and I wasn't. She knows your better than that." _

_ The Youkudan seethed. "Don't try and use her to manipulate me." _

_ She shook her head. "I'm not. I'm trying to get you to calm down.” _

Whatever stick had gotten stuck up that one’s ass, it had grown into a tree. As Veros pushed open the door to the room they had unofficially dubbed their common room, her gaze fell first on the man in question, sitting with one hand pushed against his lips and his knees spread, free fingers tapping incessantly on his leg. Jyggalag gave her a cordial nod of greeting, and Quaranir was talking with a tall, grey-skinned man in jagged black armor. Red paint was smeared over his face, and he looked oddly solemn, as if the straight lines and darkness cast over his eyes were not his usual countenance.

Sanguine.

“Look, if I had known Elenwen was using my protection to hurt Tharya, I wouldn’t have struck a deal with her,” he was trying to explain with his ungauntleted grey hands. 

“A deal,” Miraak mused, all the ticks and jumping in his body coming to an abrupt halt as his head swiveled to the Prince, “a deal. You are _ Sanguine_.” He stood, and Dukaan sighed.  
“Here we go.”  
“_Clavicus Vile _ is the Prince of deals, is he not? And you, you are the Prince of sin, sloth, lust...what _ business _ do you have making _ deals _, Prince of Debauchery?”

“Listen, I know you’re pissed, big guy-”  
“ **Don’t** call me that.” Miraak grabbed the Prince by the collar, ignoring the rugged, gritty feel of his armor. He seemed to think better of that and his large hands slid up to lock around Sanguine’s neck. “She trusted you. She was your only true friend, which is much more than vermin like you deserved. And you repay her by imprisoning her?” Sanguine didn’t look intimidated but rather rueful, remorseful, even as the First Dragonborn backed him forcefully against the nearest wall. “You _ betrayed _ her.” Miraak hissed.

Dukaan watched in mild horror as golden scales slid out from under the hem of the First Dragonborn’s sleeve, shifting and _ slipping _ from his dark skin like fish break the surface of water. They coated a thick trail down the back of his arms, disappearing beneath his robes, trailing up his neck and vanishing into his hair. That... _ that _ had never happened before. But Dukaan had seen his dragon alter-ego only once, and those were the golden scales, albeit smaller, more shined. Miraak shuddered and made a low, rumbling noise in the back of his throat. “You have made an enemy of the wrong person, Prince of Debauchery, and perhaps not now, but you will live to regret it. _ I do not forget my enemies._”

“None of us are enemies here, Miraak,” it was Cara, trying to calm him again, “we all have to work together-”  
“Do not speak to me of _ alliances_, elf,” he said, his voice dangerously calm, “we will not let those two rot any longer in a Thalmor prison. We require the will to free them, and the means to do so. Both of which are lacking severely in this room.” Numerous pairs of hard, irritated eyes bored into him. “I will do it myself, if I have to.”  
“If you do it, you’ll just be bringing Tharya back. That’s all you care about.” Ayera crossed her arms.  
“I came back from the dead, woman.” He said through an impossibly tight jaw, scaled fingers clenched into fists. “To a broken world. The woman I love has been taken. Do not speak to me of playing favorites, for I am no favorite of the universe. If I do it, I will bring them both back, and _ finally _ we can seal this gods-damned rift in the sky, and make whole the world.”

Without another word he shoved the doors open and stalked out of the room. Dukaan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“He is-”

“A drama queen.”  
“..._geh. _ Please allow me to talk to him.”

“Is he always like this?” Stormy blue eyes settled on him with pity. “I don’t know how anyone could possibly put up with it.”

“It takes a special patience,” Dukaan nodded once and then followed Miraak out of the room.

“Well, however annoying that was, the Redguard had a point. We need a plan to get into the Thalmor headquarters, wherever they may be.” Veros pushed into the center of the room, uncrossing her arms.  
“I can help you with that,” Sanguine said miserably, snapping his fingers. A rolled map appeared in his fingers and he pulled it open, letting it hover beside him. “It’s up here, far to the north. It was an old run down fortress when Elenwen got to it, but she convinced her superiors to divert enough resources and men to rebuild. Not sure how, but she considers he and Tharya a real threat. It’s hidden in the mountains north of Cloudrest.” 

“Where is Artaeum in relation to Cloudrest?” Jyggalag asked, looking intensely at the map. Quaranir pointed to an empty region on the map.

“Physically, we should be located here, below the island of Auridon.” Miraak raised a pale eyebrow.  
“Physically?” He echoed.  
“Artaeum vanished long ago from the physical surface of Tamriel,” Quaranir said offhandedly, as if that fact were common knowledge, “as we do, every century or so. If you were to sail through the island’s usual occupied space, you would meet nothing but open sea, as we are not on the surface of Nirn.” A silence settled over the group as they all looked expectantly at the map. Sanguine glanced between them all before shrugging and the parchment vanished.

“Miraak has Tharya’s spear, right? She can open Oblivion Gates with it,” he dodged Quaranir’s inquisitive glance, “all we need to do is get that and I can open a Gate to the Thalmor headquarters.”  
“And how is it she is able to open _ Oblivion Gates? _ ”  
“We’re in luck,” he ignored the Psijic, “Elenwen is throwing a little party of sorts inside the fortress to celebrate her capture. I personally thought she’d be done with parties, but I think this is kind of a revenge thing since Tharya can’t rain on her parade again.”

Ayera nodded slowly. “Do you know where she’s keeping them?”  
“No, but the spear, with the right magic, should bring us to her.”

They all shared a look.  
“Then what are we waiting for?”

* * *

Erador didn’t know the Nord in the cell over all too well, but the silence coming from beyond the wall separating them was unsettling. At least when she was here he could hear her scraping around, even her breathing if he huddled close enough. Some nights there were...animalistic sounds, and vaguely he heard her cursing the moon. But he pushed it out of his head and listened for when the Thalmor threw her back in; they hadn’t touched him as of yet, and he suspected it had something to do with Ondolemar. But they fed him the same sloppy food and gave him the same shitty floor to sleep on, and the same barred window to stare longingly out of all day.

Tonight there was no moon to speak of, and the outside hallway was quiet. He knew there were guards, but they too had fallen to the night’s reprieve and spoke nothing to one another. Another night to spend between sleep, another night to look up at the blank sky and wonder about the others; wonder about Ayera. Wonder if they would ever get out of this damned place, if the hole in the Fabric would ever be mended or if they were destined to fail. All the odds were against them, it seemed. Split up, with no help from the Weavers and _ Time _ herself had dropped dead in front of them. Death had told them it was _ their _ problem, so that wasn’t much help either.

Heavy boots clanked rhythmically down the hallway and Erador scrambled into a corner with a thin smattering of hay on the floor, lying down to fake sleep. The guards didn’t usually check inside the cells but it was all the better to be invisible when they did. 

“You’re relieved.”

“I have an hour left,” the one at the door replied. Erador rolled his eyes. The Thalmor were nothing if not punctual.  
“I’m doing you a favor, kid,” the one with an uncommonly gruff voice came closer and then the boots stopped. “Besides, I’d rather be here than anywhere near the First Emissary right now.”

“I’ve heard horror stories. _ Thirty mages_, can you believe that?”

“Keep it down!” Erador could picture them peeking into his cell.

“He’s out cold,” the younger one shrugged it off, “won’t last much longer, either, not with the rations they’ve been getting.” Erador knew that to be true in the dull pain invading his stomach. The guards kept talking, albeit quieter. Didn’t matter. Sound carried like waves in this tight space. “What did she need thirty dead mages for?” _ Thirty? _ Why was Elenwen killing her mages by the double digits?

“I’m not sure. No one but the Head Justiciar knows.” Ondolemar. What had he gotten into this time? “Some say she’s been dealing in blood magic.”

_ Blood magic? _ Auri-El’s sweet cheeks, if that was the case then they were all doomed. But if Ondolemar was the only one who knew the truth...then he’d just have to catch up with his old friend. 

“Oh, here she comes. High and mighty Last Dragonborn.” The guards laughed mockingly together and Erador resisted the urge to get up and check through the little door window to see her. “Oh, shake my hand Dragonborn!” Tharya didn’t answer but not long after he heard her cry out. “I _ said _ shake my hand.” With the jangling of keys the door was pulled open; her body hit the floor like a limp rag that Erador could picture in his head. And then she was locked in again. The guards snickered to themselves before finally switching, and however long after that Erador thought it was safe enough to try and talk.  
“Hey, you still alive in there?”  
“Gods, I wish I wasn’t.”

“What was it today?” He almost didn’t want to know the answer.

“Fingers,” Tharya sighed, “joint by joint. Creative.” He cringed, trying to imagine what kind of pain you’d even feel when your fingers were snapped joint by joint like twigs. 

“Can’t you heal yourself?” He asked hopefully. His reply was the rattle of chains.

“Nope. Even if I could, I’m probably going to die in here anyway so it really doesn’t matter.” He tried to sketch the Nord’s face in his head, but her visage was slipping from him. He hadn’t been around her enough, seen her enough to remember every feature. Erador had taken to remembering things, little things, in an effort to keep his sanity intact. It often brought him to Ayera. The gentle curve of her smile, the snowy white of her hair splayed against the sheets in the morning, the softness of her lips...

“We’ll get out.” He nodded.

“Oh, we will. The question is whether or not we’ll be alive for it.” Erador shuffled to his feet and tiptoed to the door, peeking out to try and find the guard who was stationed at his door, but he was too far out of view. However, a light snore floated into the silence...perfect.

“Listen, I heard some guards talking these past few days,” he scrambled back to the wall, pressing close as he usually did whenever he and Tharya tried to whisper, “Elenwen is going off on some wild witch hunt for you, and rumor has it she used blood magic for something. Only problem is, Ondolemar is the only one who knows the true reason.”  
“And the Psijic.”

Erador paused. “A...the _ Psijic? _ What do you mean?”  
“There’s a Psijic here, working with the Thalmor. Went rogue or something. She helped create the Break.” The Altmer wilted against the wall. Why would a Psijic, of all people, have left the Order to help the _ Thalmor? _ What could she possibly gain from that? “She knows why Elenwen needed blood magic because she did the ritual. That’s all I know. It’s hard to hear when people are literally cracking your knuckles.” She sounded miserable. But they couldn’t give up, not now. Not with this new information. They still had a Dragon Break to fix, a world to save...if there was any world left when they broke free. If.

“And there’s going to be a party,” Tharya added, her voice beaten, “I guess we’ll be the main event.”

* * *

Miraak was standing poised like a bronze statue, tall, broad, unmoving against the perfect late morning light. His arms were crossed but loosely, his feet planted a shoulder's width apart, his head turned three-fourths to the left, his chest and ribs slowly expanding and receding with each measured breath. His eyes were closed. He was listening.

Dukaan did not think the art of the Fourth Era held even the smallest candle to the grand mosaics, tapestries and paintings of the Merethic Era, and he did not think the stories about Atmoran gods creating all life to be the most beautiful thing on the planet to be true. He found that art and beauty had been collapsed into one solitary living figure. Six feet and seven inches of earthy bronze Yokudan skin, dark, silken chocolate hair, molten gold eyes like lava, like bloody coins. A drama, a comedy, and a tragedy all in one. And still, the only name he could give to this masterpiece-

"_Mal zeymah? _”

The statue came alive just then, turning towards him one foot at a time, lumbering and patient, like a mountain. It all seemed to happen in slowed time. Miraak opened his eyes and they fell to Dukaan waiting patiently in the doorway. For a brief but everlasting second he was framed in the sunlight.

"Dukaan." His baritone still sent chills to the other Priest's toes, his impossibly smooth and low, beautifully accented voice. A proud face tilted up to him in questioning. He looked resigned. "I did not hear you enter." Miraak’s steps were weighed like he was wading through a pool of heavy water; Dukaan’s eyes flicked nervously to the mere towel shifting around his hips with each step. Only now did he notice the wet hair plastered to the Yokudan’s neck and face, the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, sliding through the glen of his pectorals and over his legs.

“What does the wind have to say?” He asked calmly, and Miraak peered out at the morning as if it would have something new for him.

“Nothing.” Golden eyes flitted to the spear lying on the perfectly made bed; that was intriguing, and rather telling. Miraak was the farthest thing from freakishly neat but once you got him strung up enough he could do nothing but clean and tidy his surroundings. The only thing he could ever control was himself and his surroundings. “No matter,” he tried to dismiss the crease in his dark brow, “meditation has never worked for me before.”

In his rumbly voice Dukaan could sense the growing disapproval with the world. In his lack of the usual elegant diction, there was the same old mistrust and disdain for life that had become painfully familiar to the First Dragonborn in the last four thousand years.

“You have never been able to calm your mind enough,” he pointed out.

“It has never worked for me before,” Miraak repeated with a narrowing gaze, “and nature has never favored me for her conversation.” 

“You are a force of ice. Ice has never favored nature.” He tried to chuckle as he perched stiffly on the edge of the bed, trying not to imagine the way they slept together, close and warm and tangled. Safe. Loved. “We will get her back, Miraak.”

“_Geh. _ We will.” He added with a half-turn, half-nod and those strong arms crossed again: “and the elf.” 

“May I be honest?” Miraak gravitated towards a privacy screen in the corner and gave a lame shrug, dropping the towel at the most dangerous last second.

“I would prefer you are.”

“I did not expect you to be so concerned with the elf as well,” Dukaan squeezed his eyes shut to avoid the shifting silhouette, “are you?” A long pause. Miraak reappeared and Dukaan listened to the click of his boots—all Dragon Priests had loud boots—before opening his eyes again. The First Dragonborn put his arms through the sleeveless sides of his robes and did the inside button that held it closed. The three-pronged scar vanished.

“Yes, I am. My worry lies with Tharya,” her name was a dirge on his lips, “but I am concerned for the elf as well. He has been brought here, just as she has, just as I have. And we are all placed here for reasons beyond our own.”

This was a strange twist from the young man Dukaan knew. He had never been one to speculate on destiny or fate, and had always been one to forge his own path through strength and willpower. He peered at Miraak and examined the broad expanse of his shoulders as he fit his belt around his waist. A shining, gold leaf rendition of the five-pointed College of Winterhold eye gazed half-lidded at Dukaan. Cool grey fabric clashed against dark skin, with golden thread patterns to accentuate the eyes. 

“Grey fits you.” He noted.

“Faralda seems to think so.”

Dukaan barked out a laugh and together they walked to the door. Miraak paused and opened a hand towards the bed, awaiting the spear...it didn’t come. He heaved a sigh.

“It plays favorites,” he murmured and trekked back into the room to wrap his hand around the weapon, “what it does for her, it barely does for me.”

“You’ve been demoted, _ mal zeymah._” Dukaan clapped his shoulder with a lingering palm, laughing again. Miraak shook his head to hide a grin.

“_Nox hi fah frolok ko, zeymah. _ It is much appreciated.” Their footfalls and arm swing fell into sync as they traversed the hall together in silence, but it was not uncomfortable. Dukaan easily recalled the days where Miraak had not been so selectively mute, so reclusive in his speech. Sometimes it felt odd talking with the Yokudan because there were things Dukaan expected him to say, even prompted for, that never came. Little quips and interjections and explanations that hadn’t seen the light of day in millennia. The nature of his conversation had been altered by solitude until there was little to no conversation at all.

Veros broke their conjoined silence by approaching from a connecting hallway on the right. Dukaan stopped and Miraak drove a few steps more before his boots scraped to a halt and he turned. 

“We have a plan.” 

They shared a look. 

“Well?”

* * *

“These robes are itchy.” Cara announced, looking at herself in the tall mirror.  
“I did not say they were comfortable, only practical.” Quaranir handed Dukaan the last of the potions in his hands and the Priest drank it with a sour face. When he looked around again he could see each of their friends gathered, experimentally prodding their faces and arms, examining their hands. Cara and Ayera seemed to be watching on in amusement, already dressed in their Thalmor robes with silken scarves tied around the waist.

“Nothing is different,” Dukaan frowned, but Quaranir gestured to the mirror on the opposite side of the room. Both Miraaks joined him as he migrated towards it, and all of them eyed their reflections. Staring back at them were three lean Altmer men, expertly dressed and with impeccably sharp and golden features. “Odd.” He hummed. “So we will all be able to see each other and ourselves, but...”  
“Others will not be able to see _ you _. It is quite a refined illusion.” Quaranir nodded, stepping back to linger beside Veros and Ayera. Veros hadn’t taken her mask off even when given the potion; she’d stepped outside to drink it and came back in a full-fledged Thalmor Justiciar. 

“Can I see that?” 

Miraak bristled at the Daedra’s voice. No doubt he was asking for the spear clutched tightly in his hand, thinking perhaps he had a right to it because of the dark red and black feather tied just below Anari’s protection charm.  
“For what purpose?” He thought that was fairly generous.

"This is no time for your games, boy." Jyggalag's voice was grating and low as he peered out from under a grey brow to stare at the Priest.

“So I can get us where we need to be,” Sanguine opened a hand expectantly as Miraak turned to face him, “you can’t feel her because she’s warded, which means the spear can’t bring you to her. But I’ve been to the place, and I know where it is. I can bring us there.” The Priest looked at each and every set of eyes on him. Waiting. Wondering. He did not care if they all came to despise him. They did not need to be his friends, they only needed to be his allies, and they only needed to be competent enough to fix Time. With a dark look he handed the weapon over. Sanguine had to wrench it from his grip.

“You all remember how to dispose of your disguises?” Quaranir asked as Sanguine began to etch the symbol of Oblivion into the floor, tendrils of red magic trailing behind the spear tip. “I cannot help you, but I can ask that you try to discover the source of the Break. If it is truly perpetuated by the Thalmor...we must know where and how.” They all nodded. A swift breeze bounded through the room and then died out, and a blue Oblivion Gate materialized from the air. Sanguine turned to them and a thin sheet of shimmering magic slid over his body, granting him the tall and defined features of an Altmer.

“Too good for the potion?” Veros quipped. The Prince chortled and made a flourishing gesture to the Gate.

“Ladies first.”

* * *

The scent of sweet alcohol and perfume was lingering at the ceiling, creating a fine haze around the chandelier of the medium-sized room. It was not the type of room he expected for a party, but he didn’t think there were enough people here to even call this gathering a _ party _ . They had managed to slip in with another group of high-ranking Thalmor after being transported just a half-mile outside the fortress. Apparently invitations were found to be _ insulting _ to such high-ranking members of the order; primitive and quaint things. With this caliber of company, one should always be able to trust who would show up to their parties. 

It was becoming clear to all of them that the only purpose of this party was for Elenwen to prove to her superiors that all the resources, all the money and all the soldiers they had diverted to her cause were bearing fruit. She was playing the part of the ever-moral, ever-vigilant and ever-persisting leader, pretending to be deeply indebted to those who had made her little fantasy possible. Pretending that her success here was the success of the entire world, or at least, the entire Dominion. Buttering them up so they would feel proud of themselves, as if _ they _ had captured Tharya and Erador with their own two hands. This way, they would continue to supply her with all that she needed, and their egos would continue to inflate.

Dukaan didn’t know how long they had been here, abiding amongst their enemies, parading as allies. The wine had dulled the feeling in his throat but it had yet to affect his head, and he couldn’t tell if he was glad of that or not. It had been _ hours _ , and between Miraak’s fidgeting and Cara’s extensive evasive maneuvers whenever Ondolemar moved an inch, he was beginning to get irritated. Irritated, and tired. But just as Miraak was approaching him, looking entirely out of place in his sleeveless robes and his dark skin—Dukaan knew the Thalmor did not see him as such, but _ he _ did—the doors swung open again.

“Ah. Ladies and gentlemen,” Elenwen rapped her fork against her fluted glass, stirring the crimson liquid inside. She looked...sick. A strange and dreadful aura emanated from her that made Dukaan’s stomach turn upside down whenever she passed too close. He didn’t know what she had done, but whatever it was, it was slowly consuming her. “Our entertainment for the evening has arrived.” The First Emissary crossed the room with a whisper of fabric and motioned for the guards to move into the chamber, a sickly proud smile on her face. Like a hunter who had just caught sights of an elk about to meet its doom at the end of her arrow.

It took every bone in Miraak’s body not to jump forward. Every muscle went tight, his tendons steel cords, his shoulders and neck bunched up with tension. But he continued to stride across the room like a mechanical toy, coming to a stiff stop at Dukaan’s side. Their shoulders were pressed together.  
“_Mal zeymah_,” he tried to sound comforting, but there was a fierce rage contained in the Yokudan next to him that would not be put out by anything. No, Miraak’s eyes were fixed on the beaten and bent figure that had been escorted, in chains, to the room, standing just in front of the doorway bordered by Thalmor guards in their shining armor, head hanging low, knotted golden hair obstructing her face. Across the room, Ayera checked the guards, peered through the doorway to see if anyone else was coming. But no one did. Jyggalag surveyed the guards as if readying himself to dispose of each one of them. Miraak’s fists clenched so tight the leather of his illusion’s gloves creaked in protest.

_ Tharya_, he was aware of the shaking in his voice, but it was not borne of sadness or regret, _ what have they done to you? _

Weakly her head lifted, six black lines of warpaint meeting the light of the party. The Thalmor gasped collectively, but Miraak knew, even bruised and bloodied as her face was, that she had heard him. Dukaan’s hand flew out to stop him as he took a half-step forward. Hesitantly, warily, her voice trickled back to him:

_ ...Miraak? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nox hi fah frolok ko, zeymah - thank you for looking in/stopping by, brother (loose translation bc dovahzul isn't that casual but i was too lazy to do it in higher atmoran)


	16. a/n 1

hi all!

so i DID post this week's chapter, but i just didn't feel very good about it. i didn't like the writing or how it came out, and so i've decided to take it down & rewrite/do some heavy editing so it's better. the chapter will be posted again next weekend, and after that i might go on a very short hiatus as i write christmas fics for my main three OTPs (star trek, skyrim, dragon age). while i write i may be posting a few little snippets/sneak peeks of stuff, and if you guys have any Q&A questions i'd love to answer them! :) thank you for understanding! 

aureliu_s


	17. Vidavelen's Waltz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the squad breaks into the thalmor headquarters to stage a rescue!

“You know this dance, Lady Ambassador?”

He was beginning to believe this was the most difficult thing he’d ever done. He had watched Elenwen crow about her _ taming _ of the Last Dragonborn, watched her sing the praises of their _ interrogators, _watched as the other Thalmor had examined Tharya like a broken toy, prodding her bruises and leaving some of their own. He had seen money passed around, and didn’t even want to guess what they were bidding on. A limb, perhaps, or an eyeball once the Nord was dead; an organ or two for experiments, her larynx and diaphragm to see if the throat of a Thu’um user could be replicated. Some had simply laughed at her, congratulated Elenwen as if she had won some great prize or lead some great hunt. Not once had Miraak approached Tharya, or spoken to her. He tucked himself as far away as possible and dug his nails so hard into his palms he was sure his skin split. The others kept looking at him, waiting for him to either break and jeopardize their entire operation or continue on with the plan. For a long, long time, he did neither.

And finally, he continued on.

Elenwen pushed herself close as Miraak fit his arm around her and it was obvious he was supposed to be impressed with _ something, _ whether it be her bold manner or the pressing of her breasts against him he wasn’t sure. He was impressed by neither.  
“I do not,” she tried to keep her voice low and sultry but she sounded hoarse, sick. Some kind of magical illness was afflicting her, he could feel it everywhere she touched him, like a thick haze coating her soul. “You will teach me, I hope?”

“Of course,” he forced himself to be cordial with her, try to return her advances, but every part of him burned with rage. Tharya had since been carted off after the Thalmor had jeered and prodded enough at her. Dukaan told him it was a good idea, to stay away, lest his anger bubble over and ruin their entire process. He didn’t think it was _ good _, but it was an idea nonetheless. “Tonight you are in my hands, Lady Ambassador.” 

The violin of this particular waltz was low and mysterious, easily a personal favorite, but he’d chosen it for a very specific reason. It was a waltz that had lasted through the ages, withstood the trial of time all the way to the Fourth Era. But it was Atmoran in origin. Whatever they called it now, it was called _ Vidavelen’s Waltz _ , and rightfully so; kings, diplomats, leaders aplenty had been assassinated to the tune of the violin’s cloaked notes. _ Vidavelen _—Life, in Higher Atmoran. The entity herself, not the process, the living thing. Anyone in a position of power knew to fear this song, and to hide when it was played. It was not performed as a joke unless it was a cruel one, and the sheet music never touched for anything other than assassin plots. Even if it had been phased out of the culture, he would never stop enjoying the adrenaline it pumped into his veins.

Tonight, Elenwen was an ancient Atmoran king, and tonight, he wielded the blade that would kill her.

Despite her unfamiliarity with the song she danced well to it, following his feet with minor discrepancies but nothing enough to ever trip him up completely or ruin the waltz. Occasionally he would interrupt the normal flow of his feet to let her twirl out to arm’s length, if for no other reason than to remove the sickening knot of her presence. Elenwen’s gaze never left him, and he forced himself to return her stare even with a bitter taste rising in his throat. She was expecting something of him, he knew. Maybe his body, once this dreadful party was over. Maybe the raw and sweaty, passionate _ dance _ that would come between silken Aldmeri sheets. He could think of nothing worse.

His salvation came when the last few notes of the violin drawled out, when Cara clambered atop one of the tables after more or less throwing her wine glass to a nearby servant, and began warbling Ragnar the Red terribly off-key at the top of her lungs.

“_Oooooh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red who came riding to Whiterun from ooooole Roriksteaaad! _”

Oh, _ gods_. That was terrible.  
“What’s this?” Elenwen pulled away from him, seemingly regretting taking her hands from the firm plane of his chest. 

“_As he told of gold battles and bold he had made--_woops!” She laughed drunkenly. “_But then he was quiet, oh Ragnar the Red, when he met_-”

“What is the meaning of this?” Elenwen shrieked. “Get off there right now!” Ondolemar began to advance from across the room. Cara slipped backwards in an awkward motion off the table, crashing to the floor.

“Allow me, Lady Ambassador.” With a flourishing gesture Miraak kissed her hand and then strode directly for Cara, grabbing her under the arms to hoist her up. “_Resist_.”  
“Ha! Let go of me, you filthy...pig-brained...lord!” Miraak tried not to roll his eyes. She could do better. It came in the form of one of her fists connecting with his eye as she thrashed around. Dukaan joined him next, then his twin. “You rats! You...knife-ears! Can’t a girl just have some fun at these _ drab _ parties? Come on! _ When he met the shield-maiden Matilda- _ ”  
“Out!” Elenwen cried, aiming a finger for the door. Ondolemar was watching with piqued interest. Both Miraaks, Dukaan, Veros, and Ayera made a fuss of shoving Cara, still singing loudly, out the door and into the hall. From there, the blond Atmoran and Dukaan took over, pulling her by the arms to a few waiting guards.  
“Where are the dungeons?” Dukaan demanded. “I should like to throw her in there myself for the disrespect she displays.”

“I shall escort her, my lords.”  
“_Where are the dungeons? _” Miraak yelled. The elf looked taken aback by their apparent eagerness to see to the matter personally.

“...just this way, my lords.” The guard looked quizzically between the two of them before nodding to the left. 

“We shall return to the party,” Veros announced loud enough for them to hear. The other sentry didn’t even spare them a glance. 

“Well, that was nice to watch,” Sanguine snickered, materializing out of nothing but the air around him. Jyggalag was beside him, looking decidedly unimpressed by their show. “Come on. Elenwen’s quarters are this way.” He jerked his head down the hall. Miraak glanced to the other guard standing vigilantly beside the door. “What? He just saw you guys walk back to the party, like you said you would.” The Daedra winked at him. Miraak grimaced, and together the four of them migrated to the right and towards the First Emissary’s chambers.

The lock on her door was impossible for any blacksmith to break, but with some magic it melted. Jyggalag stood watchfully at the door with his arms crossed to bar any intruders.  
“Elenwen doesn’t keep a diary, but she does keep records of how many people she has to kill,” Sanguine stated, gesturing to the First Emissary’s desk. “And sometimes she writes down why.” Miraak leapt at the desk as the others dispersed to look around the room’s various bookshelves and tables. There were useless papers scattered on the top, letters, things he could glance over and not miss any real information. Two of the drawers at the bottom were locked, and the others contained much of the same; letters, some books, dry inkwells, spare quills. With a swift movement he wrenched the locked drawers open one at a time, their mechanisms snapping off.  
“Look at this.” He lifted a leatherbound journal with twine tied around it and meandered out from behind the desk. “This looks to be devoted entirely to the Break. She has been planning it for..._months. _ ” Miraak flipped through some of the pages. _ Psijic arrived today. Will remove Ulfric_. Next page. _ DB taken fight to Solitude. Recalled Psijic_. Skip pages. _ FDB erased_. _ Stars leaving? _ Skip five, ten, twenty pages. _ HM gone. Captured DB. O knows newcomer? _

“‘Will remove Ulfric’?” He echoed, brow furrowed together. “Recalled Psijic...DB taken fight to Solitude.”

_ “S-Stormblade?” Ulfric groaned, blood dribbling from his lips and soaking his beard. “What...what has happened?” _

“Find anything useful, big man?” Sanguine peered at the book in his hands.

_ “Miraak?” _ _  
_ _ “Hm.” _

_ She turned over in their cramped tavern bed, speaking to his back. _

_ “When I killed Ulfric...did you hear what he said to me?” _

_ “Geh.” She exhaled heavily; he could feel it hit his shoulder. _

_ “It’s bothering me. It’s like he was under some spell and killing him woke him up. His eyes...I don’t know, he looked confused. I don’t know what to think of that.” _

“Elenwen orchestrated everything,” he breathed, “the rebellion, the massacre in Windhelm. Tharya was right.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“When she killed Ulfric, he said something to her, he asked her _ what has happened_. Like he didn’t know. It says here that Elenwen sent “the Psijic” to Solitude to “remove Ulfric”. So perhaps-” he paused, and then his shoulders went slack with realization. “Perhaps he _ was _ under some magical influence, and Elenwen was...was _ using him _ to bring Tharya out of hiding. But who is the Psijic?”

“A Psijic girl went rogue and joined the Thalmor,” Sanguine spoke up, “her name is Rumaea.”  
“Why would a Psijic help bring about the end of the world?” Jyggalag wondered aloud. 

_ “Miraak?” _

_ “Do you ever sleep, woman?” _

_ Tharya rolled her eyes and then scooted closer, very purposefully putting her head on his chest and obstructing the view of his book. _

_ “Did I ever tell you what Talos said to me in the temple?” Miraak sighed and let the book fall closed on his stomach. _ _  
_ _ “No. But if you’re interrupting you must think it’s important.” _ _  
_ _ “Yes, I do. He told me that _ ** _nothing has gone right since Torygg died._ ** _ ” Absently she touched the scar over his chest, tracing the middle line down. “Since Torygg died. That’s been-” _ _  
_ _ “Three years. Almost four. I recall his death.” _ _  
_ _ “Nothing has gone right since Torygg died,” she sat up and he slid his palm against her back, closing his eyes, “I wonder what he meant.” _ _  
_ _ “I think you should sleep,” he stroked her spine, “so I can go back to reading.” _ _  
_ _ “You’re terrible,” Tharya sighed, leaning against his propped up leg. “I don’t know what it means.” _ _  
_ _ “You’re on talking terms with the Divines, you can ask.” _

Suddenly everything seemed to click. It all made sense. The Thalmor had orchestrated Ulfric’s massacre, his bloody search for Tharya, his obsession with eliminating the threat she posed to his throne. His confusion in the final moments of his life had been..._real_. As if he’d just woken up from a dream. And Torygg, well...Torygg had only been the tip of the iceberg; although the Thalmor couldn’t have helped with that...could they? The Psijic girl had only just arrived. But if this was all true-

“This Dragon Break has been nearly four years in the making,” Miraak breathed, his eyes lifting slowly from Elenwen’s journal. “Good gods.” He took a step back, though he wasn’t sure what from. 

“You look like you found something,” Jyggalag noted, taking a step in his direction.  
“What is that?” Veros asked; she and Sanguine crossed the room to him.

“We need to find them,” Miraak handed the book to the Prince, “keep this safe.” He ordered, stalking towards the doors and shoving them open.

“Excuse me,” a pair of guards were standing in the hallway before them, “what are you-” ice spikes shot from the First Dragonborn’s hands. 

Ayera scoffed.“If anyone finds these bodies, they’ll lock the whole place down,” she pointed out.

Golden eyes seemed disinterested with her words. “Then let us move quickly.”

* * *

Dukaan didn’t know exactly where they were since they had split off and killed their guard escort, but the magic he was following was undeniably strong and not of this world. Not like any other magic he’d ever felt before.  
“Where are we going?” Miraak asked from behind. 

“I am not sure,” the Priest shrugged, “but...this may be the source of our Dragon Break.”

This piqued Cara’s interest. “It’s here?”  
“I believe so.” The hallway was dark and cold; they’d had to fight through four guards to get here, excluding the one they’d killed before, and though it hadn’t been much of a battle it was eating at Cara’s nerves. If those bodies were found, their whole operation would go belly-up. They followed Dukaan at a quick pace. Miraak’s grip on her hand was steel as the three of them half-jogged along. _ Ironically enough_, she thought to herself, _ time is of the essence_.

_ Carawen. _

The voice made her jolt to a stop, wrenching Miraak to a halt with her. She whipped around to find its owner, but there was no one there. Only the abyssal darkness of the hallway, broken occasionally by dim rings of sconce light.

_ Where are you going in such a hurry, Carawen? _

“Who’s there?” She called.  
“What do you hear?” Miraak asked, stepping to her side, one hand on his staff. Dukaan lingered just behind them.

“We should keep moving. My magic tells me the Break is just beyond this door.”

_ Come here, Carawen. The Priest is correct. Just beyond this door. Come here. _

Without thinking she shuffled to the door Dukaan mentioned.

“_Dii lovaas? _ ” Miraak’s voice felt so distant, so far away. She pushed the door open slowly. A blue ribbon of magic sat in the center of the room, the floor stained with gods know what. The longer she looked at the magical rift the more it muddled her brain. It felt like _ distortion_. It felt like _ confusion_.  
“Carawen.” A nasal voice drawled. Behind her the door swung shut so hard it rattled the room. Distantly she heard Miraak’s voice rise in alarm on the other side. A robed figure stepped from the dark, green eyes set against bright golden skin much like her own. “I knew I recognized you, your voice, even as you were disgracing yourself.” She felt her heart drop through her ankles. This couldn’t be happening. “Come, you know it to be true, Carawen. Even though you are not from this Fracture, you know who I am.”

“Ondolemar,” she choked out, as if his slender fingers had reached out of their own accord, closed the canyon between them and wrapped tightly around her throat. 

Ondolemar felt adrenaline course through his veins. His shoulders were taut with a predatorial excitement. As if he was looking at a ghost. And in a way, he was. She was different, but subtly so. She was stronger, not just in body but in how she held herself. Tall, proud. It seemed as if her physical strength paled in comparison to the magical energy radiating off of her. His own magic was nothing to scoff at, but hers was greater than he’d ever felt it before. He was not arrogant enough to think that he could win this fight with just his magic alone, but something made him pause. A weakness. The fear in her eyes. She _ feared _ him. Good. 

"After we deal with your friends, I will have the Ambassador spare you, I think. It saves me the issue of finding a new wife." Confusion washed over her features. He took a measured step towards her, and she took a step back. "I know that the timelines have become...crossed. You and I wed some one hundred seventy years ago. And you killed yourself some one hundred and sixty years ago. A shame, really. You don't seem surprised?"

"I'd rather die than be married to you, _ firok_."

"It seems that you learned insolence in this other timeline."

“No, Ondolemar, _ you’re _ the insolent one.” Cara spat.  
“Did you think I would let them in? Give you a chance?” Ondolemar laughed bitterly. “Never, Carawen.” 

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I learned more than just to stand up for myself."

"Your magic is impressive, but I can't have you getting the idea you can simply...go off and do what you want,” he made a little gesture with his fingers, “we've looked into memory wiping magic. We might try that. To bring you back to your docile state." _ We. _ There were others who would support his case. Her father, perhaps, was the first that jumped to mind. He saw her lovely golden skin go pale. Good. She was scared. Ondolemar approached swiftly and backed her to the door, grabbed her wrist, his grip iron tight, her magic dissipating.

"I won’t make the same mistake twice, Carawen."

She shrunk under his cold gaze, before a deep, male voice broke through the door.  
“Cara!” _ Miraak_. His voice was accompanied by a harsh pounding on the wood. She could feel it shake with the force of his hitting. “What’s going on?”

“Is that your new lover, Carawen, darling?” Ondolemar grinned wickedly. “I will kill him first. And perhaps make you watch.” 

All color drained from her face but the pounding continued. Ondolemar’s eyes flicked to the door hinges when they creaked. Cara spotted her opening and used it; with far more force than he thought she possessed, she shoved him off her, a spear now poised at his throat. 

Where did she get a spear?

"I'm _ not _ your wife. I'm _ not _ the same scared girl I was."  
“Of course not, darling. Not after we wipe your memories.” A Shout was bubbling up from her very core, draconic and unforgiving. Miraak’s voice pushed through the wood again, calling for her.

“You won’t get the chance.”

** _Mul...qah diiv!_ **

Ondolemar felt the blood drain from his face. But that...surely she wasn’t?

A black shadow settled over her shoulders, pops of gold and violet breaking up the shadow that swirled and formed a crown of elegant horns on her head; midnight wings sprouted from her back, the gold of her shining talons glimmering in the low light.

"That's not possible-"

"In my timeline, I'm the last Dragonborn, Ondolemar,_ " _ her voice made the room shake and rumble.

Now it was his turn to back away. "You mean to kill me?"

"No. That is for Tharya to decide. Your other self will face the judgement you deserve." Her weapon flashed, and pain bloomed in his skull before he lost consciousness.

Miraak had heard her Shout, and prayed with every fiber of his being that meant she wasn't in trouble. He finally burst through the door at the end of a long hall with Dukaan close behind, and searched the whole room for her. A gentle sniffle alerted him to the figure to his right. She was curled up, her back against the wall, tear tracks down her face as she stared at the unconscious elf across the room. He was clad in black robes with a silken sash slung across his toros, various medals hanging from it. Cara looked up at him with wide, wild eyes, startled by his rush into the room. 

"_Dii kest? _ Are you unharmed?" He quickly moved to her, gently taking her staff from her iron grip. She seemed unharmed, though shaking. Magic emanated from her figure.

Fresh tears sprung to her eyes. "I- he-" 

"Shhh." He scooped her into his arms, grabbing her spear as he went. She gripped the divine weapon, and it returned to the golden cuff on her wrist. "We can talk about it if you want, later. The battle should be over. You're safe now, _ dii lovaas_," his voice was soft, reassuring. The Priest tried to quell the concern eating at his nerves. He had only seen her act like this during the trials, and not to this degree. Quickly he took her away from the room, to get anywhere else but there.

“Come,” Dukaan shot the Altmer a worried look as Miraak brought her out into the hall, “stay here. I will investigate the Break.”

* * *

Ayera stared at the narrow hall stretching out in front of her. Somewhere in here would be information, maybe even a key if they were lucky, as to where Erador and Tharya were being held. Despite the hulking Dragon Priest shifting behind her, she felt alone. Like the space at her side had become a void. She shivered beneath the robes that disguised her as a Thalmor. 

“It is strange,” she heard herself half-joke. “We both are here to search for our loved ones and barely even know each other.”

“I hardly find it strange.” Miraak shouldered his way around the slim elf, examining the near-empty hallway before glancing back to the rest of their group. Veros was only a few feet behind, and spared him a look before quickly averting her eyes. Sanguine and Jyggalag trailed in the back. “I do not know any of you.” Unconsciously he switched Tharya’s spear and his staff in his hands, and then added with a cold tone: “There has been no time to sit down and reveal ourselves over brunch.”

To his surprise, Ayera giggled. “Well, now I know you’re funny.” Miraak looked at her quizzically over his shoulder. “What I was trying to say is that because we don’t know each other we cannot implicitly trust each other. Sometimes that’s all it takes to fail, and I’d rather prevent that. Not with the very existence of our timelines at stake.”

“I do not implicitly trust anyone,” he replied, “you need only trust the fact that I do not intend to fail.”

“Our intentions to do not always mean we achieve our goal,” Veros spoke up from behind. Miraak didn’t reply, only muttered something in Atmoran under his breath and elongated his stride to remove himself from the elves.

“Men.” Ayera mused simply.

They continued at a rushed pace until they reached what felt to be the basement; a cold draft scuttled from the walls and made the hair on the back of their necks stand straight. There was one last set of rickety wooden stairs leading downwards, and when they descended...

“Hey!” A new voice made them all jump. “What are you doing here?”  
“I told you we should’ve kept the disguises on,” Veros muttered, reaching for her sword.  
“Who are you? State your business!” Now there were five guards standing from their card game with weapons drawn and walking towards them, armor glinting in the firelight. Miraak reached back and curled his fingers around the hilt of his scimitar.

“We’re here for brunch.”

The room exploded into chaos at that very moment; Ayera was first to let a Shout leave her lips, tossing all the guards back against the wall. Groaning, they scrambled back to their feet. Two of them were met with swords plunging directly into their guts, but the other three jumped to the offensive. Ayera hurled a fireball that was met with a steady ward, deflecting the flames to either side. A blade landed on Miraak’s shoulder and was dragged backwards, eliciting an angry yell from the Priest, who whirled around to parry the next incoming blow that would’ve taken off his head.  
“Go! Alert the Lady Ambassador, we have intruders!” The Altmer yelled to one of his comrades. Miraak could tell by the golden inlay of his armor, the dark ebony accents—he had to be a captain. “Go!” With a grunt the Atmoran shoved the elf opposite him away, ducking around the huge sweep of Jyggalag’s greatsword as it collided with another of the guards. The third was slipping away in the confusion, but Ayera and Veros were too caught up in handling the captain to go after him.  
“You!” Miraak grabbed Sanguine by the pauldron and hauled him away from the battle, sprinting off after the runaway guard.  
“Meridia’s glowing tits, man, I don’t have your legs! Slow down!” 

The Prince’s back connected to the wall suddenly, and a dark fist crashed into the stone beside his head. Sanguine swore the whole hallway rattled.  
“You listen to me,” Miraak breathed, his jaw twitching with anger, “this is all your fault. _ Anything _ that has happened to Tharya, I will hold you accountable for. This is your last chance to prove that you _ aren’t _ a spineless traitor, understand?”  
“Do you usually get this angry over her? It’s kind of sexy.” Sanguine cocked his head. “Has she seen you like this?”  
“Shut your mouth or I’ll rip your jaw out.”  
“Sounds cute.”

It was easier to keep up with Miraak this time. Despite his size he was surprisingly agile and quiet when he walked on his toes, even in those obnoxiously loud Dragon Priest boots. His fingers were taut around the scimitar, and every once in a while Sanguine glanced down at the blade when they passed through a patch of light cast by the windows. The hall was long and it seemed to grow more narrow with each step.  
“You know that has Yokudan writing on it?” He asked, skipping a step to get back in line with the Atmoran.  
“Truly amazing,” Miraak droned in reply, “if only I were interested at the present moment.” He paused at the very end of the hallway, just before a sharp left corner. A ring of dancing torchlight illuminated the cold floor, but it was moving towards them. There were voices, albeit distant. Hushed, urgent voices.  
“...intruders, Captain, I saw them. I don’t know if they’re even still alive but I think-”  
“They’re here for the Dragonborn.” A much older, grating voice surmised. “The Dragonborn and her friend, no doubt. They are this way?”  
“Yes, Captain. When I left the others were still fighting.”

“You were right to come to me, boy. I will speak with the Lady Ambassador; she may instruct us to move the Dragonborn and her associate to a different part of the island for...safekeeping. No doubt these intruders will have friends who will try again.”

Miraak’s gaze shifted back to Sanguine, who was pressed against the wall just beside him. He raised an expectant eyebrow. The Prince threw his hands up. _ What do you want me to do? _ Miraak simply rolled his eyes, looking back to the orb of light moving closer on the floor. Closer, closer...closer...an inch, a centimeter...

And he leapt around the corner, sword at the ready.  
“Captain-!” But the man in ebony armor was already hewn down, torch clattering to the floor. Pressing the tip of his curved blade against the younger man’s throat, the First Dragonborn advanced.  
“Show us where you are keeping the Dragonborn,” he demanded, “and I may leave your limbs attached.” The soldier swallowed against his scimitar.  
“The Captain has the—h-has the keys,” he stammered. Sanguine crouched to search the dying elf, and with a rattle lifted an iron ring with a handful of keys hanging from it.  
“Show us where you are keeping the Dragonborn,” Miraak repeated lowly, giving the sword a little push. The guard staggered back. “ _ Now _.”

Sanguine looked between the Atmoran and the poor sentry; he’d never seen someone as angry as the First Dragonborn, so full of rage. There was something stirring in his soul, a dull roar, a powerful presence that was fueling him to go forward. And he _ swore _ those golden eyes were glowing. _ So_, Sanguine thought to himself, _ this is what a dragon soul feels like_. The guard led them slowly in and out of torchlight, and the scimitar never wavered from its position, poised at the center of his back. One swift move and it could be jabbed forward through his heart.

The dungeons were damp and smelled of wet dog, strangely enough. They climbed down a stone staircase and came face to face with two more guards stationed at a large metal door. Both reached for their weapons but Sanguine snapped his fingers--they were gone.  
“Where did you send them?” Miraak gave him a quizzical look.  
“The Myriad Realms of Revelry,” the Prince replied with a flourish and winning smile, “they’ll be delivered into a pocket realm based on their desires.” He shrugged. “Probably forget all of this within a day or two.”

The Atmoran pushed the guard forward and he gave a little yelp, taking the keys from Sanguine’s gauntleted hand and unlocking the door. It swung open with a grating shriek. The scimitar was returned to its sheathe.

“Whatever you have done to her, I will do to you tenfold,” Miraak hissed in the Altmer’s ear, hands poised at his chin and hairline, “unlock the cell.” The elf stuttered and fumbled with the keys. “_Unlock the cell! _” Miraak roared, and the guard whimpered. 

“I-I have it,” he held up one of the keys in his shaking hand.

“Go,” Miraak shoved him ahead, keys jangling loudly. The young Altmer tried at least three times before it slid into place, and the cell door inched open. “Good.” He wrapped his hands around the guard’s neck and snapped it without so much as a flinch. “You have served your purpose.”

“_Dii lokaal,_” he stepped over the guard’s limp body to the figure slumped in the corner of the dark, cramped room. “Tharya?” There was no reply, but it was impossible to mistake her, waterlogged and beaten though she was. “_Dii lokaal? _ ” He tried again, but still she was deadly silent, limp. Cautiously he tucked two fingers below the hinge of her jaw—her pulse was slow, strained, but there. The Dragon Priest exhaled heavily into the darkness.  
“Damn,” Sanguine made a slow circle in the center of the cell, “look at the walls. What the hell happened?” Miraak turned his gaze to the stone, his breath stopping in his throat. The stone was littered with claw marks, digging deep into the rock and leaving light grooves. The moon filtered into the cell from a barred window that was barely a foot wide. These marks were not made from any normal animal-

“Watch out!” Sanguine crashed into him just as a guttural howl filled the cell. Together they shrunk away from the approaching werewolf, its dark fur matted and coarse. “Is that her?”

Miraak’s blood ran cold. Yes. Yes, it was. He met the beast’s eyes and knew at once it had to be her, no one else had such piercing clarity to their gaze, no one else communicated so much without words.

She stepped forward, paw by heavy paw against the cool stone floor as a low growl rose in her chest. He backed up. His sword arm jerked and her head whipped to stare at it like it was the next meal. Good gods, she had to recognize him. She had to. He was...he was _ him. _ Miraak. She knew him, didn't she? She knew his scent, didn't she? _ Old books and fresh snow, _ that's what she had told him so long ago, and he had forgotten up until now. 

"Tharya," he whispered, his voice incredibly strained, trembling. There was a haze in her eyes; they were no longer clear and all-seeing. The beast...the beast was not under her control. Not right now. _ Old books and fresh snow. Old books and fresh snow. _ "Old books and fresh snow."

Her nose pushed against his chest and then into his neck, forcing his head up towards the ceiling. He closed his eyes. She inhaled. It hadn't been real up until this point. It had always been a fantasy, always been itching in the back of his mind but he had always dismissed it. It had never been _ true _ and _ tangible. _ But now, here, staring into those clear sky eyes that he knew did not belong on this monstrous, vicious, twisted animal, he felt the bitter sting of fear in his mouth.

"_A-ahtlahzey._" He had never stammered before. Was he really so scared? It was only her. It was _ her _ , somewhere, but this was not a spell for him to break, nor a trance he could magically save her from. She had chosen to do this, to appear like this to him...and gods help him, it was terrifying. Gently he placed a hand on her fur, heart racing. She bared teeth at him. “Listen to me, _ dii lokaal_. I know you can hear me. We are here to rescue you.” He could do nothing but put his arms around her neck, stroking his fingers through her fur.  
“I think I hear the others,” Sanguine mumbled. Slowly he got to his feet, palms facing the werewolf, but she ignored him. “I’ll...go get them.” His heavy footsteps moved out of the cell and then disappeared.

In his arms, Miraak felt the huge wolf begin to shift, almost as if there was something inside of her that was trying to get out. He closed his eyes; gods, he had no desire to see her transformation from a faithless animal to the woman he loved. The long arms fell away, the claws receded into bloody fingernails. There was a low whine pressed into his neck and then nothing, and she fell limp. 

“Erador!” Ayera rushed past the open door of the cell. Veros stepped into the doorway and gave Miraak a look, or at least he thought she did from beneath that mask. He didn’t care. The happy cries of Ayera and Erador reunited reached his ears, and some part of him was glad, but some part of him didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything in this moment. Not even the Break. Prying the Last Dragonborn off the filthy floor he slung her, with as much care as possible, over his shoulder, digging her spear out from his belt. His skin crawled and Miraak didn’t bother to look down at the golden scales covering his arms. The Thalmor had angered the dragon, and now they would have to burn for it.

“Come,” the others looked up at him, “we are leaving this place.”

* * *

Their trek back to the upper levels was quick and silent; the stepped around the five guards and the captain’s bodies without a word. When they left the dungeon, the door shut behind them with a final slam. _ Are you sure you have everything you came for? _ it taunted. _ Are you sure you can get out? _ Miraak paused to reach his magic out to find Dukaan’s. Wherever Dukaan was, they would meet up with him, Cara, and the other Fracture’s Miraak. The dull roar of the party returned, however far away it was. They came to a darkened hallway that looked near identical to the one in the basement, and Miraak slowed to a lumbering walk.  
“Through here,” he motioned to a door at the end of the hallway and then pulled it open. They all filed in...

  
  


“_Zeymah! _ ” Dukaan’s voice came first and then his half-hug. “You all made it,” the Priest squeezed Miraak’s shoulder, sending him a worried look before eyeing the rest of the group. “And all in one piece.”  
“There is no time to waste,” Jyggalag pushed, “open a Gate.” Sanguine extended his hand to Miraak just as the First Dragonborn reached for the spear in his belt.  
“Let me,” the Prince said quietly, “you have enough on your plate.”

With a scowl, Miraak gave it to him. Sanguine nodded as he took it and went to draw the symbol of an Oblivion Gate against the floor. Everyone watched as a swirling blue portal sprang to life, framed by two thick black tree-like trunks.  
“Now we can get out of here,” Erador groaned, and Ayera patted his arm slung around her shoulders.  
“Indeed. The portal is open, you-”  
“Well, well, well,” a smug voice droned from the doorway, “what have we here?”

“First Emissary,” Ondolemar groaned from the floor, struggling to his hands and knees. Veros’s sword shifted to point at him, poised for attack. Everyone felt frozen to where they were standing. Not one of the Dragonborns moved. “May I present to you...the First Dragonborn,” with a weak flourish and a wheeze the Thalmor Justiciar struggled to his feet and gestured to Miraak. Erador's mouth fell open.  
"You're a snake!"

“Very well done, Ondolemar,” Elenwen chided, “it looks as though we needn’t try and capture him any more. He has come of his own volition.”  
“Our plan has worked, First Emissary,” the man grinned triumphantly through a split lip.  
“_My _ plan, yes. Things seemed rather dire at first, what with the capture of that _ elf _ rather than this...” she eyed the Yokudan slowly, raking her gaze over him, “ _ this one _. But all has worked in the end; you have come to us, First Dragonborn. I should thank you.”

She moved to the left and Ondolemar limped to the right, little more than an arm’s width away from Miraak.  
“I ask only that you leave that one for me, First Emissary,” Ondolemar’s hungry eyes were fixed on Cara. A piercing blue gaze warned him away. “As she is...rightfully mine.”

“Over my dead body,” Cara snapped.  
“Oh, we can’t have that, dearest.”  
"We're leaving, Ondolemar," Erador barked, "you won't stop us."  
“Enough.” Miraak uttered, and just as Elenwen and Ondolemar looked back at him he raised both his arms in their directions. “Do not. Move.”

Miraak leveled his scimitar with Elenwen’s throat, curved blade glinting in the light. On the other side, Tharya’s spear tip pointed directly for Ondolemar. He looked between both Thalmor, and, once satisfied that they were not moving, let go of the weapons. They hovered where he left them in midair.

“To the portal,” Dukaan said quietly, taking a step back. Cara, her Miraak, Ayera and a staggering Erador were herded back behind his arms, and together they shuffled backward to the Oblivion Gate opened with Tharya’s spear.

Miraak crouched, setting the Nord gently on the ground, and Cara swore she saw smooth golden scales traveling down his arm as he did so. A strange, furious and caged power emanated from him. Strong orange fibers of magic left the kneeling Atmoran, moving down his arm and flowing to where his fingertips met Tharya’s skin. The glow enveloped the both of them until it brightened and then vanished entirely. “Go, go,” Dukaan urged Ayera and Erador to the Gate behind them, but they didn’t budge.

Miraak stood, and Cara _ did _ see the scales now, trailing from below his robe on either side, down the back of his arm and to his fingertips. Those were..._dragon scales_.

“You are not safe from us,” he said simply, taking the scimitar and the spear again. He sheathed the sword on his back and tucked the spear, after it shrunk, into his belt, “you will not be safe until I kill you. Then you will know the coldness of the Void.” He glared at Elenwen in particular as he bent to pick Tharya up, slinging her limp body over his shoulder. “When I return—for I _ will _ return—I will turn this place to ashes in the dirt,” he snapped his fingers and Ondolemar visibly flinched, though Elenwen remained stoic, “and you will all _ burn with it. _”

“Should you return, we will be waiting,” the First Emissary said proudly.

“Mark my words, elf.” Miraak’s eyes narrowed. Hazy wisps of air lingered around his arms and head, and when she squinted she saw two curling, ethereal horns materializing. Pauldrons of dragon scales clad his arms, a transparent tail forming piece by piece. The room shook once. “Your death will not be that painless.”

Without another word a blinding explosion of light erupted from the First Dragonborn.  
“Go! Through the portal, now!” Dukaan was pulling people to him and throwing them through the Gate. “Veros! Now!” But the Dunmer was glued to the floor, her eyes shut tightly against the light. Above her the ceiling collapsed and around her the walls were pushed down. Vaguely she heard Elenwen and Ondolemar shouting at each other, and saw them scrambling for the door. The building shook to its very foundations as something _ large _ launched itself into the air. She remembered her feet slipping this way and that to retain purchase. The Oblivion Gate remained still. Dukaan was yanking her towards it.

The light dissipated and a draconic roar went up into the night sky. The last thing she saw before being swallowed by the portal was a golden dragon beating its wings into the night, silhouetted against the full moon.

And somewhere in the distance, Vidavelen’s Waltz played on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dii lovaas - my song  
dii lokaal - my love  
ahtlahzey - arch-mage  
zeymah - brother


	18. a/n 2

heyy sorry for the lack of posts folks! school was crazy this past week and even though i'm on vacation finally, i'm having a hard time getting the creative juices flowing which means i haven't written anything worthwhile in about a week. to top that off, everyone (all six of us, not kidding) in my household got the stomach bug at the exact! same! time! so we're trying to work through that at the current moment. and on top of THAT, christmas eve, which is regularly held at my house every year, is tomorrow! so there are a lot of things that are impeding my free time right now. i'll try to post some snippets as i go, but please note it might be a little before the next chapter! thank you all for your patience and continued support :) love you & happy holidays!!


	19. sneak peek!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel bad about not having posted in so long, but i am starting to write again! major family things are happening (great timing, sigh) but here's a sneak peek of the next chapter, nothing special! :)

“Where’s Miraak?” Tharya moaned, resting her head against the pillow once more.

“The _Abuser_ has left.” Arngeir gave a crass reply, wringing out the cloth in his hands before folding it and placing it over her forehead again.

_Though he did not want to,_ Borri’s gentle voice echoed kindly in her head, _you called out to him many times during your rest._ Tharya’s clear eyes settled on the silent Greybeard from across the room. “As I always said he would, Dragonborn,” Arngeir crowed, “the Abuser is not one to hold promises.” _It distressed him to leave you, but he believes he could find all the necessary ingredients for a concoction to be rid of your fever in town._

“He went to Ivarstead?” Tharya blurted. Arngeir froze and then looked disapprovingly at Borri, who only smiled in return.

“The Abuser-“

“Shor’s bones, can we stop calling him that? At least call him the _Traitor_, like the dragons do.” She ran her fingers through her hair, closing her eyes.

“He did not betray us, Dragonborn. His title fits him—he abused the Voice and its gifts.”


	20. A Hymn in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the squad enjoys a beach day; alternate miraak tries to learn more about the different fractures; tharya suffers an acute affliction as a result of the dragon break; prime miraak yearns for home. supporting scenes (Miraak & Cara's beach scene, as well as Miraak & Erador's conversation) provided by co-authors!

Arngeir didn't know what to expect when he felt the mountain tremble, when he heard the powerful beating of dragon wings against the hot night air. He woke and lit a candle, cradling its flame close as he scurried down the hallway. Outside there was a bright moon waiting for him as the tall metal door swung shut. He started down the steps. No dragon occupied his courtyard, but two crumpled and bent figures just barely illuminated by the moonlight. The one hunched over the other in their arms looked up, golden eyes beaming like two hot coals in the darkness.

“Please,” he croaked, his voice hoarse and broken, his eyes bloodshot and bleary, “_save her._”

* * *

Dukaan had waited. And waited. And waited. He had waited the night away on a mere flutter of a thought, the mere inkling of promise that filled the back of his head. He watched the sky for Miraak’s return, well into the small hours of dawn. With each inch the sun rose, another foot his heart fell. Miraak would not be returning to him tonight, nor, it was possible, any night. Dukaan’s time was running out, he could feel it. Sooner rather than later, he would be gone from this world, and as much as he dreaded it he found solace in the fact that his death would set the entire universe back on its axis. Pride, even.  
“Priest?”

He shot up from his position slumped on the couch, half-asleep. His robes were crumpled and wrinkled everywhere, and the sun was high in the sky.

“Psijic,” he nodded once and stood, pressing his hands to the fuschia fabric in a vain attempt to smooth it out. “You need something?”  
Quaranir looked at him for a moment with something akin to pity in his eyes. “No,” the Altmer shook his head, “I simply came to tell you that the others are going to the beach. If you wanted to join them.”

“Oh,” Dukaan smiled emptily, “the beach. I do love the sea.” Quaranir nodded slowly, before reaching out to pat his arm.  
“Do not linger on what is to be, Priest. Enjoy these days while we all have them. When Throne-Breaker and the First Mage return, if they return...we will need to band together and figure out what else there is to be done.” The Psijic stood and straightened his sleeves before sighing. “There is still much time left for you. For us. But if we do not act soon and swiftly, there will be no time for anyone.”

Quaranir sent him one last long look before he walked out, footsteps disappearing down the hall.  
“He’s a cheery one.”

“I know.” Dukaan replied as he leaned back against the sofa and dragged his hands over his face, before pausing. Who...had said that? The Dragon Priest twisted around to find Zahkriisos standing just behind the furniture with his arms crossed, shaking his head. “_K__risos? _”

“Ah, _ Drem Yol Lok_, _ zeymah_.” A large smile split the other man’s features.  
“I don’t understand,” Dukaan shot up and reached out to put his hands on Zahkriisos’s shoulders, recoiling when they met solid fabric, solid flesh and bone. He was _ real _ . This was not another vision or ghostly visitation. “How are you here?”  
“Well, the walls between the living world and the afterlife have grown incredibly thin,” Dukaan circled the couch as Zahkriisos spoke to embrace him.  
“We decided to push the envelope a little,” another voice, and this time Vahlok appeared, perched on the sofa’s arm. “To see if we could come here, to the waking world, in a corporeal form.”  
“_We? _ Don’t tell me...” But when he pulled away from Zahkriisos there were two more faces waiting for him, both old and grey. Ahzidal and Morokei.  
“Grand Mage!” Dukaan cried, bowing immediately. “I...I am pleasantly surprised to see you all here.”  
“As you should be. This world is a wreck,” Ahzidal squinted around the room with disdain etched into his angular features, “no wonder we were able to cross so easily. Where is the runt?”  
“_Geh_, I was expecting to see him here.” Vahlok looked around the room. “He...prayed to me.”

Dukaan sighed as Zahkriisos patted his shoulder, planting his hands on the back of the couch.  
“I do not know where he is.” He watched as Ahzidal rolled his eyes, ruffling his shimmering gold robes and shaking his head. “I could try to-”  
“He is on the Throat of the World. Monahven, the Snow Tower.”  
“With the _ Greybeards? _ ” Ahzidal spat out a bitter laugh. “Those old fools. Perhaps the runt has finally lost it.”  
“No, _ Zoklahzey_.” Vahlok shook his head. “He is with the _ Laat Dovahkiin_.” Ahzidal grimaced.  
“She is a fool as well. Is she not the reason this is all happening?”  
“_Zoklahzey_, we are here to help fix the world. Don’t think of it as helping Miraak. If the living world is not looked after, the afterlife and all its realms will fall next.”

A stunned silence settled over the room. Vahlok looked at each of them before clearing his throat, sitting back on the couch arm, his back stiff.  
“Miraak has asked us for help,” Morokei said. He spoke slowly, evenly, and Ahzidal rolled his eyes as the other man nodded. “Even if he was not expecting an answer, he is one of us. We made sacred oaths to one another. It is within his rights to expect our help and that includes you, Grand Mage.”  
Every eye in the room fell onto Ahzidal. Their leader, however stingy he was. They _ could _ do something even without his permission, but they were Priests first and reanimated Atmorans second. Ahzidal ran a hand through his silver hair and squinted at them.  
  
“Fine. But after this I am done cleaning up the runt’s messes.”

Vahlok grinned. “Perfect.”

* * *

_ Miraak’s knees hit the soaked ground and a bitter smile crossed his face as two swords immediately swung around to his neck, like a giant pair of scissors waiting to cut. _

_ “Do not waste your strength, Tharya.” He said calmly, arms slack as his hands were wrenched behind him and bound together. The Dragon Priest exhaled long and slow, his breath clouding the blades for a moment before the rain washed it away. _

_ “You bastard,” she whispered, trying to lift herself from the cobblestones, “I told you to go right.” The puddle below her was stained a deep, intimidating red. _

_ “Stay down, dii lokaal.” He cooed gently, smiling at her. “The pain will be gone soon.” _

_ “Over my cold corpse,” she half-whined, trying to sit up. “Why did you give up?” _

_ He pressed his neck forward to the intersection of the two blades. _

_ “A good opponent knows when he has already lost.” _

_ “Then you’re a terrible opponent,” Tharya grimaced, crying out as she finally managed to plant herself up on one arm. “The Miraak I know never gives up.” _

_ “Tharya.” He said firmly. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” _

_ “My guts are already coming out, smartass. Why are you so calm?” _

_ “Stay down.” He fixed his golden eyes on her. Another strike of lightning illuminated the dark, wet world one last time. With a withering, glazed look, her entire body shaking painfully, she collapsed back to the cobblestone street. “There we go.” _

_ “You’re a bastard.” She whispered hoarsely. _

_ “I love you as well, ahtlahzey.” He closed his eyes. “Thank you for everything. Let me kiss you one last time.” _

_ “You can’t,” she looked at the swords pressed to his neck, “Miraak, don’t move around with those things so close to you.” _

_ “Niid, ahtlahzey, do not worry.” Another smile. “They will not hurt me.” _

_ “Miraak, those blades are sharpened to cut rock. Don’t move.” _

_ The Dragon Priest merely cocked his head to the side, raising a dark eyebrow. _

_ “They will not hurt me.” He repeated in the same voice as before, leaning forward. Blood pooled around the blades and dripped down his bronze skin. “See?” _

_ “Miraak!” She cried, struggling to sit up. “Miraak, stop it! You’ll kill yourself!” _

_ “They will not hurt me.” He sounded angry. When she looked, his golden eyes were ablaze, brow knitted in fury, jaw clenched. “Don’t you listen, you stupid girl?” _

_ “Miraak!” She watched in horror as the blades dug through his neck and a spurt of blood went directly into her eyes, forcing a short scream from her lips. “Stop it, stop it! You’ll die!” _

_ “They will not-“ his words were cut short. Like a hot knife slicing butter the blades cleaved his head off and it dropped to the cobblestones beside her. Tharya felt a scream erupt from her bloody mouth, scrambling backwards from the head, from the body that was dropped unceremoniously to the ground behind it. “Miraak!” She heard herself wail, trying her hardest to move away. The swords clattered to the ground somehow just beside her, making her flinch. “No, no...this isn’t happening.” She sobbed, closing her arms over her head, bringing her knees up to her chest. “This isn’t real, this isn’t real.” _

_ Gentle hands pried her arms away. The First Dragonborn smiled at her again, a bloody gap between his neck and shoulders. _

_ “They will not hurt me.” He repeated. Another flash of lightning, and Tharya shrieked as his features briefly became that of a corpse’s. Miraak chuckled, and tilted his head to the side, only it bent to a perfect right angle. _

** _“See?”_ **

“Miraak!”

There was sweat clinging to her skin, dampening her hair and holding it close against her neck. Her entire body felt like it was caged below miles upon miles of unforgiving ice. But when she curled her fingers into the street below her, waited for the rain to come...there were sheets. Rough but warm. _ Sheets _. And the air was dry, clean, fresh. Mountain air. And when her eyes opened...there was nothing but blackness. 

“Please, Dragonborn,” an old voice said soothingly, “calm yourself. The First Dragonborn is not here. He cannot harm you.” A firm hand pushed against her shoulder until she laid down again. Harm? “You are always safe within in the halls of High Hrothgar.”

“No, no...Arngeir.” She blinked up at the hazy figure of the Greybeard as he peeled a damp cloth off her forehead. “Where’s Miraak?”

“The _ Abuser _ has left.” Arngeir gave a crass reply, wringing out the cloth in his hands before folding it and placing it over her forehead again. Tharya groaned.

_ Though he did not want to, _ Borri’s voice was more gentle than Arngeir’s, less grating as it slipped into her mind, _ you called out to him many times during your rest. _ She looked around for Borri but it was impossible to tell whether the amorphous figure in the corner was a lamp or a man. “As I always said he would, Dragonborn,” Arngeir went on, “the Abuser is not one to hold promises.”

_ It distressed him to leave you, but he believes he could find all the necessary ingredients for a concoction to be rid of your fever in town. _

“He went to Ivarstead?” Tharya blurted. Arngeir froze and then looked disapprovingly at Borri, who only smiled in return.

“The Abuser-“

“Shor’s bones, can we stop calling him that? At least call him the _ Traitor _, like the dragons do.” She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing the wet rag off, the butt of her palm brushing something made of cloth over her eyes.

“He did not betray us, Dragonborn. His title fits him—he abused the Voice and its gifts.” The Last Dragonborn didn’t reply; she was more interested in the blindfold tied over her face, beginning to peel it back when Borri cried out. The entire monastery shook and rumbled, stones groaning as they cracked and spit up dust and dirt that had sat dormant for years. Arngeir shouted something back and his hands pressed back on the blindfold.

“What the hell, Arngeir!” Tharya shoved him away, clambering off the bed.  
“_You must keep it on! _ ” Borri spoke again, and this time the very mountain below them trembled, throwing Tharya and Arngeir to the floor.  
“_What _ is going on?” A new voice barked from the doorway, and a pulse of magical energy made everything stop. The room fell silent and below them the mountain stilled. There was a muffled _ thud _ of something hitting the bed and clicking footsteps coming towards her, two hands pulling her up. “_Ahtlahzey_-”  
“Miraak?” Tharya dug a thumb below the cloth and wrenched it off. The First Dragonborn’s protest died away.

The Miraak she was looking up at was _ not _ human, not of this world. He looked like an ethereal ghost, one she’d meet in ruins, sheathed in wispy blue magic. Around her the world was blinding, lit up with every color as vibrant as it could be. Nothing was real. There was no _ stone_, no _ fabric_. Only what reminded her of the world between worlds, hazy brushstrokes. But everything here was intently colorful, shimmering like stars but too close to admire. Close enough to harm her.  
“What...what am I seeing?” She whispered. The Greybeards were not shrouded in the same violent aura Miraak was, but instead they were made up of a dull purple. So dull and dark, it gave her a headache to look at. Arngeir sighed as he stood up from the floor and brushed his robes off.  
“You are viewing the world in its rawest form,” he cleared his throat. “You are seeing the magic that is everything, the Time, the Life and Death of all things. You are seeing...the Divines’ way of making the world; using matter of their own godly creation. Right now, you can see every force in the universe, whether it be natural or metaphysical, acting on itself, on other forces, on every object.”  
“I don’t understand,” Tharya grabbed for the First Dragonborn, clamping her eyes shut, “how is that even possible? I can see _ everything? _ The celestial makeup of the universe?”  
“It was not intended for mortal eyes to behold,” Arngeir reached out to pat her shoulder, and offered the blindfold to Miraak. “If you were a being of any less strength...you would be dead.”

She pushed away from the Atmoran, staggering towards the wash basin in the corner.  
“How did this happen?”  
“Were you audience to an...event of the Dragon Break?” Arngeir shrugged. “This disease of sorts only happens to those who are close in proximity to an event that correlates to a Dragon Break.”  
“Then why is he still standing?” Tharya aimed a finger to Miraak. The men fell quiet for a moment before the First Dragonborn spoke up.  
“I _ was _ the event. My coming back to life was not in proximity to anything, because it _ was _ the event that changed things.” He mused.  
Tharya shook her head. “But I was close to that. So was everyone else.”  
“Is there anything else, Dragonborn? Anything at all?”

She looked in the mirror and for a split second, had clarity. For a split second, the walls around her were stone and not magic. The basin below her hands was porcelain, not the swirling atoms it was made up of. For a split second she could _ see_. She could see the oceanic blue color of her irises, the swirling and undulating blue, rippling like a pond and tumbling like waves.

“Elenwen,” she said finally, “Elenwen, she...she used blood magic to imprison Hermaeus Mora.”  
  
Miraak’s blood went cold.  
“She _ what? _”

* * *

He stared out at the sea, not far from the grassy dune he was standing on. He didn’t see the appeal of it, if he was being honest. But the smile on her face—after the last several days she’d had, dealing with the demons she tried to fight off, was enough for him. _ More _ than enough.

Cara was ecstatic, he knew. She was practically vibrating with excitement. Actually, he _ was _ fairly sure the air was vibrating from her excitement, even if just a little. He could feel the magic humming in the air. The sand was a pure white, the water shining crystal blue. Cara took his hand and dragged him out towards it, the soft sand squishing between his toes. That was odd; he’d never expected to feel sand or real water again, not in Apocrypha. And it was so _ warm._ He’d imagined it to be far colder than it was. But it was stuck everywhere on his feet, caking around his heels and between his toes. He decided he didn’t much care for sand. 

When the clear waters of the sea lapped at his ankles, warm but also cool, not freezing as the Sea of Ghosts was, he started to understand a little of what the big deal was. Still, Cara tugged him along, deeper into the water, the bottoms of his loose trousers now wet. When the water was about waist deep for him, she let go of his hand, diving under the small wave that was crashing to the shore. It was barely enough to push him over but he let it press him back a few steps, feeling suddenly weightless as the water carried him. A few yards ahead, Cara broke the surface. She had braided her hair tightly before coming out here, clad in loose trousers and a loose shirt, much like he was. She _ glowed _ in the afternoon sunlight, the sounds of the others nearby, the crashing of the sea on the shore becoming a dull roar in the background. 

“Come on!” she laughed at him, kicking backwards through the water. He took a breath and dove into the water after her, coming up next to her and scooping her up into his arms, just floating. Miraak understood why she wanted him to go south, to swim in the waters she did as a child.

“See? I told you you’d like it.”

“Only because you’re here.”

She grinned at him, her hands lightly gripping on his shoulders as she drew him in for a kiss. 

“This was one of the only reasons my father would let us out of the estate when I was young. We were close enough to the coast where we could picnic on the beaches outside Alinor. It’s one of my fondest memories of us as a family, without my father, of course.”

He didn’t question her. This was the most she’d spoken to him since they had returned from the rescue mission. 

“We’ll have to come south more often. Or find a hot spring. I know of several. Surely one or two are still there.” 

“I’ve never swam in hot springs before.”

A blond brow rose, a smirk on his lips. “I wasn’t planning on swimming much, _ dii lovaas_.”

He knew he was being cruel, teasing her, but the blush that spread over her cheeks was worth it. 

They spent the afternoon in the water, relaxing and talking amongst themselves, all but forgetting the bright blue spot in the clear sky. The others swam out to them, but by dusk they were all returning to the shore and chattering happily amongst themselves, the Dragon Break and their missing companions all but forgotten. Miraak watched as Erador and Ayera twined their fingers together, just a few yards ahead of him. When he glanced back, Cara was with Veros, who hadn’t joined them but had sat on the beach with a book. He supposed she wasn’t keen on removing her mask.

“Erador,” he skipped a few steps to catch up to the two Altmer, “can I have a moment?” 

"Sure," Erador winced as he replied, and Miraak saw that Ayera was trying to bandage some of the bruises on his arms. His skin was cracked and oozy from swimming in the sea. The Priest had seen her bring a bag down with her, and remembered wondering what was in it.

"You seemed acquainted with...that Justicar from before." Miraak glanced back to Cara again, as if she’d suddenly disappear. "She won't speak to me about it, and he has something to do with it."

"Ondolemar? Ow!” Erador looked to Ayera, but she shook her head.  
“Maybe you shouldn’t have gone swimming then,” she murmured. 

"I used to be his friend, but that was a long, long time ago and I hate him more than anything.” The Altmer looked at him strangely. “Are you sure you want to know? It’s a lot.”

Miraak clenched his jaw, but nodded. Part of him said no, but a much stronger part of him said yes.

"I know talking to an ex-Thalmor is not great," Erador tried to joke, but it died out like a candle flame between them. "But Ondolemar is the son of a high nobility family on Summerset. This is why we were friends, our parents were adamant we played amongst _ our kind _," he pulled a face at that. "He was...cruel, to say the least. Some rumours that his family tried to cover up said that he kept killing servant girls who displeased him."

He glanced at Miraak to see if he was following so far.

"I...see.” The Atmoran grit out.

Erador sighed while Ayera tied off the bandage at his arm and took his hand again, respectfully turning her head so she didn’t appear to be eavesdropping. 

"At first he was betrothed to my sister, before we were sent off to the Thalmor academy on Auridon. Not something my parents would listen to me about, but one can’t just break a betrothal to one of the oldest families like that.” He snapped his fingers together. “At the academy, we went on different paths. I was reassigned to the military and he continued his education to become a Justiciar. On one of my leaves, he broke the betrothal to my sister. Called her 'Hulkynd' to her face and said that a Direnni had been offered as a more suitable fianceé. I...I was furious,” he chortled weakly, “I punched him and as punishment I was given a mission to Cyrodill. In the Imperial City, I heard that their marriage had been officiated. I suppose the Direnni girl was Cara?"

Miraak stared at the sand as they walked over it, trying to remember how it had first felt between his toes. It felt coarse now. "She said she was engaged once, and she's refused to talk about it. There's not a doubt in my mind, not after how he was looking at her as we were leaving. I'm the last person to talk about opening up to someone, but I wish she would just tell me," he muttered, not caring if the other man heard him or not.

"From what I learned being with Ayera," Erador said carefully, measuring his words, “being a Dragonborn is a curse and a blessing. A lot of things are hard and difficult for them to open up about.” Miraak didn’t reply to that. “In my timeline, she died. There had been a trial...but by then I was neck deep in a secret mission lead by Ondolemar that killed all my comrades in arms. Just so he could advance, and he did. Assigned to Head Justiciar in Skyrim while I was pulled to be briefed on a new mission. There are other things about him, but those aren’t important to you, I suppose."

“A trial? He murdered her?” Miraak stopped abruptly, his back and shoulders rigid. He didn’t care if this alternate timeline wasn’t his Cara. She was still her, she didn’t deserve any of this. No one deserved any of this.

"We all know what happened," Erador replied. "But...no body, no evidence of the murder happening. And her father had been...vocal about his daughter displeasing such a high ranking and loyal Thalmor agent."

"A coverup then," he was past angry now, his voice even, dangerous. He should stop asking questions, stop making himself even more angry. But he was dedicated to revealing all he could about this _ Ondolemar_, if only so the thrill of killing him would be that much sweeter.

"She hasn't said anything about the one in our timeline, but I see why she's scared of him." he paused. "Do you have any idea how she could have..._displeased _ him?" he spat out the word. _ Displeased_. As if she was a little housewife bent on pleasing anyone. He shouldn't ask, he knew, as any answer Erador gave him would likely add fuel to the already scorching fire growing in his veins.

Erador looked at Miraak with a raised eyebrow. "I was not in Summerset back then, but when I returned with Ayera, I heard that they had children. Ones with dark hair and..." he swallowed and looked to his bandaged arms. "Those were signs of an 'impure' heritage, which is everything that matters in his eyes," he sounded just as angry. "Ayera, Cara...they share the same label of Hulkynd on the Isles. The children disappeared too, but...I do not think Ondolemar mourned them."

Miraak thought to the conversation they had shared, just weeks before all this mess started, how she said children terrified her. He understood now. The First Dragonborn took a measured breath. 

"Thank you, Erador, for your time."

Erador merely stared at him.

  
“Not many would show gratitude to someone who brings them ill tidings.”

“It has altered our context,” Miraak replied, “and context...gives us answers.”

Quaranir was waiting for them in the common room when they returned. They reached the room just as the first fat raindrops tumbled from the open clouds, splattering against the tall windows.  
“There will be a storm tonight,” the Psijic said in a low, mournful voice. “A very, very large storm.”  
“Mnemoli’s doing?” Veros asked, brushing her sleeve over the cover of her book to wipe away some errant drops.  
“No doubt.” He turned to stare at them all of a sudden, looking at each Altmer and masked Dunmer and Atmoran with a careful eye. “New things have come to light. We have gained some allies...and I have sent word to others.”  
“Allies?”  
A solemn nod behind them and they all turned; four new faces were looking back at them, with Dukaan in the center. Miraak’s eyes went wide.  
“Vahlok?”

Each Dragon Priest looked at him for a moment, all with the same countenance. Like they were trying to recall the name of an old book or lover, but it was escaping them at every turn.

"This is...strange," Vahlok narrowed his eyes at the blond Atmoran, "I _ know _ your face and yet, it does not seem familiar to me."

"I am Miraak," he said, taking a small step forward, "though...not the one you know by that name." Sharp green eyes surveyed him for a moment before Vahlok nodded and extended a hand.

"I feel that you are telling the truth. And with all that's happening," he snorted, "I wouldn't know if you weren't. _ Zeymah._"

Miraak took his hand and nodded once.

"_Zeymah._"  
  


* * *

It was nearly midnight.

Nearly midnight, and he was exhausted. He sat slouched in a tremendously uncomfortable wooden chair by the bed, his arms limp in his lap, neck stiff and eyes cast downwards. She had not moved all afternoon. Despite his many spells and incantations, despite his desperate attempts to sever her harmful connection to this Break, she hadn’t moved. Vaguely he wondered if this is what she would look like dead; the color gone from her face, her lips ever so slightly parted. Unmoving. 

_ I am Miraak. I am steel, ebony, dragonbone. I am unbreakable, invincible, unweathered, unbeaten_. _ I am the First Dragonborn_.

A melancholic chuckle pushed its way from his lips. What kind of fantasies had he fed himself to bolster his ego so? What kind of lies had he told himself last time he had walked the halls of this monastery? And what had that brought him? He looked at Tharya on the bed and vehemently wished she would wake up so they could leave this place. This place he so dreaded. He knew it was selfish, but he had no desire to be reminded of his own arrogance and where it had brought him, as if he didn’t remind himself enough already. Miraak reached out and gently traced a finger down her cheek, over the three lines of warpaint he had drawn on many weeks ago. Another selfish thought crossed his mind: he wished she wouldn’t wear it. She was striking with it, intimidating, fearless. But so beautiful without it. So shamelessly beautiful.

“But you won’t let me tell you.” He didn’t realize he said it aloud until his words hung in the silence and he stood, the chair creaking its gratitude for being relieved of his weight. 

The Dragon Priest more or less stumbled to the end table on the opposite side of the bed. He’d been waiting to perform this last ritual in the hopes that it wouldn’t be needed. It was simple and bound to disappoint, but it was the only thing he could think of that he hadn’t done already. All the herbs were here, and if they weren’t...well, it wouldn’t matter much. 

_ Land of the silver birch _

_ home of the People _

_ Where still the Mighty Ones _

_ wander at will _

_ Blue lake and rocky shore, _

_ I will return once more _

_ to you Middaeh, Middaeh, to you soon. _

His hands stopped at that. That song...it had been centuries since he had felt those words fill his lungs. An old Atmoran folk song, if he remembered correctly. His people had dwelled on the loss of their homeland after the last wave of immigrants came to Tamriel. He remembered watching them from Apocrypha, every part of him dying to speak with them, let them know they were not the only ones. He could’ve. Maybe it was early enough in his imprisonment that Hermaeus Mora would’ve entertained him, allowed him to speak with his kinsman. _ Middaeh. _ Motherland, in Lower Atmoran. None of the immigrants had spoken Higher Atmoran when they came. 

But instead, he had watched all the hundreds of them die off, breeding with the other races until the blood was so diluted and contaminated that it was impossible to find a true Atmoran amongst any one person on the whole of Nirn. Only himself. He watched his race die away, forgotten just as his gleaming homeland had been. 

“Do you miss it?”

Her question startled him out of his reverie, taking his gaze away from the smudged window that looked out onto the mountainside. When he looked Tharya had her head turned to him, one hand extended on the bed.

“Very much,” he whispered, eyes cast down. And then, with a bitter chuckle: “You should not ask Atmorans if they are homesick, _ dii lokaal. _ We all are.” He dared to look out the window one last time. “We always will be. All the songs say we will return, one day. Poetry and verse from after the Unending Winter all say one thing: someday, the Atmorans will return home. Back to the arms of our motherland. Someday, we will be a proud race again.” He shook his head. “I watched my homeland fall victim to the _ Unslaad Felniir. _ There is nothing left. No Atmorans left. Except me. Perhaps we will all return home once I am gone—perhaps that it what the songs meant. When we are all dead...we will be home.”

“I’m sorry.” Though there was sincerity in her voice, he found himself unable to accept it; was it not the destruction of his race that begot the creation of hers? But Miraak pressed his flimsy anger down until it was extinguished. There was no use fighting over a continent that had been dead for thousands of years. No use fighting for its memory when it had none.

He busied himself with putting the herbs together in a bark enclosure, tying a piece of twine tight around it.  
“I do not believe this will help at all, _ dii lokaal_. But it is all I can think of.”  
“You’ve done a lot already, big man.”

“Not enough.” He blew out all other candles in the room, submerging them in a partial darkness as moonlight trickled into the room, casting twisted shadows on the floor. A flame flickered between his fingers and he lifted it to the herbal roll, lighting the end just enough so a tendril of smoke rose from it. The words were lost to him, the incantation escaping his mind while the song of his kin filled it. So he only hummed, trying to push old and dusty memories away. “Breathe.”

Tharya did as he instructed as he passed the burning plants around the room, inhaling as more smoke clouded up towards the ceiling. This was nothing but old medicine, from before even the Cult had come into being. He prayed it would work. That it wasn’t just an old shaman’s remedy. 

Miraak couldn’t tell how long the burning lasted, only that he lost track of time, lost track of all movement and all sound. When he regained himself Tharya was shaking his shoulders, framed by moonlight and repeating his name softly, as if she didn’t want to wake him.  
“Hey, hey. Are you alright? You sat and your eyes rolled back,” she tilted his head to inspect him but he only blinked.  
“A side effect of these shaman rituals.” He peered at her for a moment before looking to the blindfold that sat loosely around her neck. “Your eyes...how are they?”  
“The same,” she gave a sympathetic smile, “but it hurts a lot less, strangely enough. It almost feels natural.” He felt the hope that had risen in his chest shatter.

“You said they are the same,” he frowned, “it failed.”

Tharya sighed and was silent for a time, examining the First Dragonborn’s face like he was a statue. He had never looked so disappointed or tired in the time she’d known him. When she reached up to cup his cheeks he set the crumbling remains of the bark down and latched his fingers loosely around her wrists, closing his eyes.  
“It failed.” He repeated, nothing but a whisper, his brow twitching in irritation. She shook her head. How could he be so angry with himself? Whatever he had done, part of it had worked. That was more than nothing.  
“Miraak?” It was odd to tilt his chin up so she could meet his eyes; he was never so sullen, never hanging his head as he was now. He had such a strong face, such hard features, it was astonishing to see him so beaten. “You did fine.” The Last Dragonborn kissed his forehead and hugged his shoulders. “Get some rest. You deserve it.”

And all he could think, as she spoke to him, held him, stroked his hair, was: _ do I really? _

_ My heart is sick for thee _

_ here in the lowlands _

_ I will return to thee, _

_ Land of the North _

_ Blue lake and rocky shore, _

_ I will return once more... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dii lovaas - my song  
drem yol lok - dragon greeting  
krisos - dukaan's nickname for zahkriisos  
zeymah - brother  
dii lokaal - my love  
geh - yes  
zoklahzey - a combination of "greatest" and "mage"; meaning "Grand Mage", the title/position (Ahzidal's position)


	21. Bonus Scene #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there were a few scenes i originally wrote out for the last chapter that i didn't end up putting in there, so i decided i'd put one here just because :)

"Borri?" She held out a hand and the Greybeard took it, perching lightly on the bedside. He gave a slow nod for her to go on. "Do you hate him? Just as much as Arngeir and the others do?"

_I cannot speak for the others, but I do not perceive the First Dragonborn as a threat any longer,_ he replied, _you have quelled the great fire that burns inside him. Or, at least, you have diverted his rage from its original intentions._ Tharya raised an eyebrow at him. The Greybeards were nothing if not cryptic, but Borri was usually the one to give her real answers when she asked.

"I don't think that's what I'm looking for." Borri smiled apologetically and patted her wrist.

_I do not hate him, no. Though perhaps he hates me. It is true he has abused the Voice and its gift, but Kyne has exacted her justice in stealing back the trueness, the faith of his Thu'um. He has told you of this._

"He has, in Windhelm. It didn't make a lot of sense." She shook her head. "How does someone just...lose their Voice?" 

_It is not lost, but it is no longer the Voice that the Sky-Mother gifted him. He has taken the power into his own hands, instead of accepting it as the boon of the gods._ Borri stood with a careful sigh that shook the entire monastery just enough to let dust sift down from the ceiling. _I will not deny the First has done wrong. But he has not wronged me, nor you. Nor Arngeir. Kyne has already punished him._

_And, Dragonborn, _Borri paused at the door, _he is very fond of you. _He gave her a cheeky smile. _I do not hate those who treat the Dragonborn with such...affection._

"Oh, shut up."


	22. Bonus Scene #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written by thewolfwhowaited!! another bonus scene :)

Miraak silently crept into his and Cara’s shared room. The lights were dim, the candles nearly burned down to stubs, the small fire in the fireplace nearly burned out. He tossed another log on the fire and fed it some magical flames. He poured some water into a goblet, replacing the empty bottle of wine on the bedside with the water. She had fallen asleep, or passed out perhaps. Dried tear tracks marred her face, and he felt his anger return in force. When he gets his hands on that bastard…He gently took the mostly empty bottle from her hands, setting it aside, and placed his fingertips at her temple, the soft golden light easing what will be a pounding headache and massive hangover. She hardly drank, so he knew this was eating at her. She stirred, eyes fluttering open to look up at him with a groan. He said nothing, just removed his boots and outer robes, settled in beside her, back against the headboard, and she crawled into his lap.

He held her close, a hand lightly stroking her back, the other, his fingers intertwined with hers.

“I should have killed him. He was right there.”

“You show compassion to those that do not deserve it.”

“It’s not compassion that stayed my hand.” Her free hand gripped his shirt tightly. “It was weakness. All my magical power, my voice, it didn’t matter because I’m _weak_.”

“Cara look at me. You are perhaps the strongest person I’ve ever met, ever seen. He’s hurt you, and you stayed your hand. I never could have the strength to do that.” She grumbled something under her breath, pressing her face into his neck.

“One day I’ll tell you what happened. Right now I just-“ she took a breath. “I want a vacation after this. Even just a short one. No classes, no life or death scenarios. Just us, and the open road maybe. Maybe we’ll just not leave our quarters for a few weeks, maybe we could go to Whiterun, just, anything at all.”

“We will. I promise.”

“Miraak?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me for anything.”


	23. a/n 3

hi all, i really didn't expect to be needing to put another author's note in so soon (or at all) but i figured i'd update you on what's going on.

so, i didn't have much time to write this week, which sucked, but when i went to write this morning my laptop was doing some funky things, and it wouldn't load chrome or docs so i couldn't get anything done. spent all day trying to fix it only to discover it has a virus, so i _really_ can't use it. i'm hoping to get it fixed tomorrow. until then i can only use my dad's desktop every now & then since he graciously offered it to me, but he does a lot of work with his computer so i don't have a lot of access to it. which means i can't write. so it may be a little while longer until the next chapter comes out, strictly because my writing time has been severely restricted. thank you all for understanding--this comes at a tough time in the fic; we're in the home stretch and i have a lot of writing to do but i'm excited for it and feeling creative, so i hope this whole mess doesn't make me burn out. 

anyways, onward! hopefully the next chapter will be out soon enough.


	24. Ghostbusters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy sorry this chapter took so long to do! my laptop died & i didn't have much time to write, but here we go!
> 
> quaranir reconnects with an old friend who brings new information; miraak and tharya meet up with some of the squad in solitude; part of the dragon break may be in their hands.

Quaranir stared down into his cup. His mind wandered first to its color, then the disorientation of his reflection as ripples danced over the dark surface of his tea. Consulting tea leaves was nothing short of hogwash, in his mind. An old and useless practice. But he had read of the great diviners of old, and they all seemed to have one thing among them: tea leaves. Tea was a fairly universal drink, after all. How could one consider themselves a shaman and not use tea leaves? Hogwash, he told himself. Nothing but hogwash.

“You have to swirl the cup three times in your left hand and then spoon out the remaining liquid. Only then can you read the leaves.” The Psijic jolted hard enough to make the table rattle, turning to the source of the unexpected voice. A Dunmer face smiled wearily at him. “Of course, it only works if you don’t spill all the tea.”  
Quaranir was struck speechless for a moment before he stood, a deep frown set in his features. “You should not be here, Rumaea.” His blood boiled. The audacity she had, returning to Artaeum, to Ceporah Tower, to _ him _ after all she had done. She had betrayed the Order when she deserted for the Thalmor. After plundering their library to steal ancient maps and tomes that would lead her to the greatest treasures of the world, she had left and given their greatest secrets to one of the greatest enemies on Tamriel.   
“And yet you have not attacked me yet,” she noted, eyeing him curiously.   
“You were my apprentice. Once upon a time, I knew you.” Her red eyes held his gaze for a moment longer before she meandered over to his little table and sat in the chair opposite his. “Perhaps less than I thought I did.”   
“Please, Quaranir, spare me the drama.” She looked around his room. “Where are the others?”   
“Why should I tell you?”

“So you’ve sent them to Solitude,” Rumaea squinted at him, reaching back to brush her dark hair over her shoulder.   
“How do you know about that?” Quaranir put both hands flat on the table, his arms tight with irritation. “What foul rituals have you dabbled in this time?”   
“None!” Rumaea blurted with a sudden conviction he had not been anticipating.   
“Do not lie to me, girl.” He barked back. “I can sense the dark magic hanging around you. Like a sickness. You have practiced forbidden magic.”

“I didn’t!” She yelled, and everything in the world seemed to fall still for a second. “I only opened the door. Elenwen...she is the one who has done unspeakable things.”

Quaranir found himself looking down at his tea again, realizing it had gone cold. The thin column of steam rising from it had vanished.   
“Your false pity means nothing to me, Rumaea.” He muttered. She reached across the table to latch her grey fingers around his wrist.   
“Blood magic, Quaranir.” A spark of unknown energy made his hand numb. So this...this was what she had been working with. Evil rites and rituals that were eating her soul away. Making her numb. “On all sides. Elenwen struck a deal with a Daedric Prince in exchange for his protection of the fort.”   
Quaranir wrenched his hand away. “So I have heard. Does she know she has bound herself to Sanguine, through her payment to him in blood?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she does.” Rumaea folded her arms into the sleeves of her robes. Psijic robes, he noted with disgust. How dare she continue to wear the mantle of their great order when she walked the path of a traitor? “But it’s more than that. She had used blood magic to bind Hermaeus Mora in Apocrypha. He is caged.”

“For what purpose?”  
“To kill the First Dragonborn again. This time, Hermaeus Mora would not interfere. But she hasn’t been able to carry it out.” He raised one thin eyebrow at the Dunmer. “Her soul was already promised to Sanguine through their contract. When she bound Hermaeus Mora, she sacrificed thirty mages, for thirty bars in his cage. Quaranir,” Rumaea’s shoulders were tense, but she leaned back in the chair and exhaled slowly. “The connection to Hermaeus Mora is killing Elenwen, slowly. Her physical body is decaying; he is too strong to bind with so little. And that is _ thirty _ souls. We must let Hermaeus Mora out. Every time Elenwen probes back into the past, she expands the Break. With Mora free, an inkling of order is restored. And Elenwen cannot continue with him free.”

Quaranir found himself slumping back down into his chair, wrapping his hands loosely around the ceramic teacup. How had it come to this? Nearly two years ago he had felt the shift in the world when Tharya discovered the Eye of Magnus...nearly two years ago, he had not known the Last Dragonborn. He had known one of the dragonblood had emerged, but he had not _ known _ her. Yet here she was, here he was, and here they were. In the midst of a Dragon Break. The world thrown off kilter, the fate of all Tamriel at stake. And when Tamriel fell, Nirn would go next. The world would be subject to the brutal, erratic magic of Mnemoli and the other un-time stars and entities would appear and ravage Nirn. Quaranir shuddered; where would that leave humanity?

“And how would you propose we let Hermaeus Mora out?” Finally, the Altmer looked at his counterpart, skepticism written into his eyes. Rumaea cleared her throat and straightened her back, placing both hands palm-down on the table.  
“There is a Yokudan in your company, is there not?” Quaranir nodded. “And he has come into possession of a blade forged from before the continent sank.”   
“How do you know this?”   
“Yokuda sank when a first-rank Ansei summoned his Shehai after the last civil war. You know of the Hiradirge?” She looked at him.   
“Rebel sword-singers and wizards, yes.”   
“Most of them were highly skilled in the area of stone-magic,” Rumaea laced her fingers together, “for three hundred years Yokuda was ravaged by civil wars. The last of these wars saw the defeat of the Hiradirge. Outraged by their loss, the first-rank Hiradirge members summoned their Shehai, called upon their stone-magic, and struck the ground. The mainland of Yokuda, Akos Kasaz, and a number of its islands sank into the sea, dragging down all who resided on them. The final revenge for their defeat, and it nearly wiped out the entire race.”

Slowly, Quaranir shook his head.   
“I know all of this, and I am sure Miraak does as well. What part is he to play?”

Rumaea’s eyes glittered.  
“Through the breakage of Time, I have been able to travel back and see the very moment Yokuda’s fate was determined. I have seen the Hiradirge and their Shehai destroy the land. The swordstroke they used-”   
“No.” Quaranir spoke up suddenly, shaking his head firmly. “What you are asking for is impossible.”   
“It is the only way,” her voice was quieter now, “Time is already broken, and the universe already broken with it.”   
“And you are asking us to break it further!” Quaranir smoothed his hands to his robes. “We cannot use the _ pankratosword _ . It may kill all sentient life on Tamriel, if not all of Nirn. And the First Dragonborn,” he snorted bitterly, “he is a rage demon waiting to be born.”   
“Demons are rare,” Rumaea noted.   
“The _ pankratosword _ defies and destroys the very laws of nature, of science. Of magic. To use it during a Dragon Break...” he felt his knees go numb at the thought, “I fear the consequences will be far more violent than the loss of a few islands.”

Rumaea sighed heavily, and he heard her unasked question:_ then what do we do? _ The answer could not be _ nothing _, but that was all he could think of at that moment.

“You have a Yokudan who is skilled in both magic and swordplay. The _ pankratosword _ can only be administered by a first-rank member of the Ansei, who were skilled in both magic and swordplay.”   
“He does not have a Shehai.”   
“It is a sword stroke,” Rumaea smiled ruefully, “and he has a sword.”

When he didn’t reply she nodded to his tea leaves. 

“What do they say?” With a scoff Quaranir pushed the cup across the table to her. Rumaea put her hand over the cup and then brought it up, raising an undulating orb of tea from the ceramic with it. The Dunmer peered down at the now-dry vessel, giving a half-interested grunt. The leaves had clumped into the shape of an arrow halfway up the side of the cup, pointing southeast. Out the door of his room. And directly southeast from him...what was directly southeast from him?

“Bad news is coming from the southeast,” she mumbled, “sometime in the near future.”

“What is southeast from here?” Quaranir wondered aloud. “The auditorium? The courtyard?”  
“I appeared from the southeast,” she laughed, “maybe it was me.”

Somehow, that didn’t seem like the answer he was looking for.  
“Maybe.”

* * *

The smell in the Solitude catacombs was faint, but no less permeating. It smelled of old bones and molding cloth. His eyes were fixed on each skeleton they passed, half-expecting them to burst from their alcoves in the wall and strangle him. _ No, _ he shook his head with a grunt, _ stop it, you big idiot. They’re only skeletons. _

“Yes, they’re only skeletons, and I’ll protect you,” Tharya laughed from a yard or so ahead of him. “Do they frighten you?” She looked at him over her shoulder. Miraak grunted again, adjusting his fingers around his new staff.  
“Did you truly make this?” He asked, turning his attention to the dark wood. It shone dimly in the light, the white soul gem glittering as he turned it. “While I was gone?”   
“I did,” she skirted around a raised trap trigger on the floor, “don’t step on that. You’ll activate that giant gate. Do you like it? The staff?” Miraak hummed and nodded in reply. It was perfectly balanced, it hummed with power in his hands; no amateur craftsman had made this. Or, crafts _ woman _ . And the hand clutching the blade at the bottom, he thought, was a perfectly dramatic touch.   
“Tell me honestly, _ ahtlahzey _ .” He tapped the blade tip to the stone floor they walked upon, their pace slow and pensive. “Did you know I was to return?”   
Tharya snorted but didn’t look at him. “From the dead?”   
“Why else would you make this for me?”

The Nord stopped, sighed, and then turned to him. Miraak paused to examine the strain on her features; still the swirling oceanic blue of her eyes startled him, after so long of knowing the clear, crisp blue-grey that usually inhibited her irises.   
“I didn’t know if you’d come back.” Tharya closed her fingers around three of his, smiling with a little bit of hesitance. “But I knew if you did, I’d never let myself...I’d never _ allow _ this to happen again.”   
“ _ Ahtlahzey _ ,” he murmured, clasping her hand between his own, “you could not have stopped it.”   
“The staff,” her voice was shaking as she put one palm to his chest, “the staff is from me to you. It’s my way of protecting you even if I’m not around.” Miraak sighed and leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.   
“You are too kind and too selfless.”   
She shook her head. “The way I felt when you were dead, I never, _ never _ want to feel that way again. Miraak, I-”   
  
“Looks like we interrupted something.”

Miraak cursed under his breath at his counterpart’s voice, feeling Tharya’s hands slip from his own as she stepped away to wipe at her eyes.  
“What are you doing here?” Miraak grit out, turning to the group. Not only was his _ ziinmah _ here, but Cara and Veros were as well.   
“Quaranir sent us here because of some rumor about Torygg,” Cara spoke up, “coming back from the dead?”   
“ _ Geh _ . _ Ahtlahzey _ and I heard the same from the Greybeards.” A sharp gasp jumped from the masked Dunmer on Cara’s left. Miraak could already tell Tharya had turned to face the newcomers.   
“Good gods, woman.” The pale Atmoran peered at her. Miraak made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat— _ he _ was the only one who called her that. “What happened to your eyes?”   
“Dragon Break.” Tharya chuckled weakly. “If Torygg’s back from the dead, why not have my eyes change color?” They all gave uneasy nods before following the Nord deeper into the Solitude catacombs.

The hallways and chambers spanned at least the length of the city; as they passed by different marble sarcophagi and coffins with the kings of old lying carved into stone atop them, the air became denser and colder. They were going deeper into the earth, closer to the water level. The cold air became muggy and uncomfortable beneath his robes, like they were wading through a thick flood.  
“You look...discombobulated?” Tharya nudged her elbow into his arm.   
“Atmorans are more sensitive to atmospheric conditions and their variations,” he replied quietly.   
“And it is wet down here,” the blond Miraak supplied from not far behind them, giving the neckline of his robes a little tug and grimacing. “Uncomfortably so.”   
“Sensitivity to the atmosphere, higher body temperatures.” She snorted. “What’s next, night vision?” Miraak only gave her a knowing glance...did that mean night vision?

The catacombs were surprisingly devoid of skeletons; usually there were at least a few creaking around, staggering and waddling, wielding swords that looked like tree trunks in their stick arms. Tharya knew the glow of her spear had intensified ever since they had stepped foot in the city, but now the farther into this stone maze below Solitude they went, the brighter it got. Veros had pointed it out earlier, asking what the glow meant, or if it was simply a glorified torch. Tharya had given her a truthful answer, but kept her speculations to herself. If the light increased any more, it could be safe to assume that reanimated Torygg had become a ghoul, or even a Draugr. She shuddered at that thought; Torygg, High King of Skyrim and, she believed, her friend, could be a Draugr. There was no way to bring a Draugr back to flesh and bone, to sentient human living. She’d have to kill him.

They came to a plain stone door that could fit three abreast when opened, about six feet tall. All other doors that opened into burial chambers for kings and Jarls were carved with the triumphs of their lives, the achievements of their reign, but this one was bare.  
“This has to be Torygg’s.” Tharya murmured. Cara reached out to touch the damp, cold stone, raising a dark eyebrow.   
“Are you sure? It has no markings.”

Tharya looked to her boots before replying. “Torygg was my age, and he’d only ruled for a few years. Besides.” She pushed the doors open. “I’ve visited.”

Torygg’s sarcophagus was marble just like the rest, with stringy veins of grey and black running through it. Its polished surface winked at them in the dull torchlight. Much like the doors, it remained uncarved and undecorated, save for one side that showed his coronation scene. So that was all they had to say about him. About his reign. Tharya was torn between disdain and understanding; he hadn’t ruled long enough to accomplish much, but surely there had to be other things he’d done? Other things, however small, they could’ve put there? The recumbent effigy atop the tomb was made of striking, smooth obsidian, sharp and distinct against the calm white marble.  
“Why obsidian?” Veros asked aloud.   
“Black is the color of kings who are murdered.” Tharya replied, touching the effigy’s dark hands clasped around a sword hilt. Miraak watched her with a careful interest; the way she looked down at the carved face seemed almost reverent. Amiable.   
“You knew him?” He asked, his voice sounding harsh and rough as it stirred her away from the stone figure. Slowly she nodded, but didn’t say any more. 

“Can you get this open?” Golden eyes narrowed on her for a moment before the First Dragonborn nodded once. He looked around and then shoved his staff into Veros’ empty hand. The Dunmer flinched hard away from him, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Miraak poised both hands against the side of the obsidian lid, braced his arms and dug his toes into the floor. It wasn’t easy, but after an increasingly difficult battle with it he offset it just enough so they could see inside with a magelight for illumination. Cara scoffed.  
“Could’ve just used magic,” she murmured. The Yokudan rubbed the red lines in his palms and frowned at her. Tharya leaned down over the now-exposed coffin, her brow creasing in confusion as her eyes searched the cold interior.   
“There’s nothing here.” She stated. Cara and the pale Atmoran beside her gave skeptical looks but she only gestured to the sarcophagus. “See for yourself.” She took a wary step back, tapping her spear tip against the side of her boot. So perhaps the rumors of Torygg coming back from the dead were true, but if they were...what was he, and _ where? _ A walking corpse? A spirit? A ghoul? If he was a spirit, then it would be impossible to bring him back to a physical form; he could possess someone, maybe, but that raised too much room for doubt and wasn’t magically sound. So many things could go wrong. If he was a ghoul, or even a Draugr...they’d have no choice but to kill him before he did the same to them, or even worse—added them to his ranks of undead.

“_ Nothing heeeeere...” _ a lonely voice swept like a draft through the little chamber, making the hair on the back of her neck stand straight. That voice sounded all too familiar. All too real. “ _ Nothing here. _ ” It repeated. A pair of bony fingers combed lightly through her hair, brushing her earlobe as they retreated. Tharya felt all the blood drain from her face. There was someone breathing against the back of her neck. Someone breathing _ heavy _ but slow. The creak of joints echoed in the little chamber, and slowly her eyes traveled to Cara, who was staring at something behind her with terror written into her faces.

“Gods dammit,” she whispered, “he’s behind me.” The half-skinned hand reached forward again for her neck, and this time got as far as the column of her throat before she yelped and jumped away. A Bound blade materialized in her hand and she swung it recklessly upwards. With a dull _ slap _ , a half-decayed human arm landed on the smooth floor, oozing something that wasn’t quite blood. “Oh, _ gross _.” The being moaned in pain but there was nothing more. Sunken eyes surrounded by white bone glanced longingly at the arm before looking to Tharya again.

Miraak took his staff from Veros and swung it so the white soul gem was pointing behind Tharya; he thrust the staff forward with a grimace, another strangled moan leaving the space near the Last Dragonborn.  
“A _ striogi _ ,” he muttered.   
“They are dumb and slow. As long as you hold it-” his twin shrugged lightly.   
“It will not go anywhere.” Tharya and Veros crept away from the zombie together, the Bound sword vanishing into the air. On the other end of Miraak’s staff was something that reminded the Nord of Vahlok when he had first appeared; half-skeletal, half decaying dead body. Whatever skin was left was white as a sheet, with bones and bunches of muscle poking through. A smattering of wiry hair clung to the figure’s left skull, where the only skin was. Some parts of the body were caved in, showing organs. A loose rope of grey intestines hung out from one of these caverns.

“What did he call it?” Cara asked her Miraak quietly, wrapping her fingers in his.   
“A _ striogi _ ,” the blond replied, “at least, that is our name for them. In Atmoran folklore, they are the walking dead. Corpses who rise to feed on the living; but they are incredibly slow and incredibly stupid, so they are easy to kill.” They all watched as the _ striogi _ helplessly touched the wooden staff sticking into it, and with a whine gave up at trying to push it away. “You call them zombies.”

The Altmer’s dark eyes turned to Tharya. “Do you recognize him? Any part of him, at all?”   
“How could she?” Veros muttered.   
“She’s right,” Tharya shrugged, “it’s impossible to tell if this is Torygg or not. But...this _ is _ Torygg’s tomb, this is his coffin...if my deductive reasoning skills are at all adequate, this should be Torygg, back from the dead, but still pretty dead.”

Veros shifted from foot to foot, feeling the little book she’d tucked into the cloth of her belt. Quaranir had said to try and avoid using it. _ At all costs _ , had been his exact words. _ At all costs, this book must remain sealed. But I am sending it with you just in case. _ A little contradictory, perhaps, but if Torygg was supposedly back from the dead and _ this _ was Torygg, perhaps it also warranted use. _ It is imperative that Torygg is alive and well. If he isn’t... _ Quaranir had glanced to the book just then, and left it at that. _ The Atmorans will know what it is _. Cautiously, she pulled the little leather bound book out, its metal clasp warm from being hugged against her body. The voices from her companions faded away slowly, like they were removing themselves one by one from the room. They were muffled like they were underwater, and then whispering against pillows, and then...nothing.

Without thinking, without a single thought forming in her head, she lifted her fingers to the metal clasp. _ Open. _ The book commanded. _ Open me, elf. See what secrets I can give you _ . She was trembling almost instantly as the voice seeped into the back of her head, its command growing stronger, more overwhelming. Everything felt hot and cold at once. _ Open me. See what power I can give you. _ And she was going to, she was, she was about to flick the clasp open and take what was hers, what was _ hers _ , what knowledge and power this little book could give her, it would all be _ hers _ \-   
  
“Veros?”

With a shout she flung the book to the floor. There was a hand on her arm—it was Tharya, gazing expectantly at her through the mask. Why did it always feel like she could see through the mask?

“What’s this?” The Nord bent to pick the book up but almost immediately one of the Atmorans—gods, Veros couldn’t be bothered to remember which was which—sent out a blast of magic that knocked her hand away. The other shouted in alarm:  
“Don’t touch that!”

When Veros looked, they both seemed horrified.  
“Why?” Tharya stood again, shoulder-to-shoulder with the masked Dunmer.   
“That book...” fierce golden eyes settled on Veros. She hated his eyes. They were dragon eyes. “Where did you get that book? Answer me!” She flinched ever so slightly before shrugging, her arm brushing the woman next to her.   
“Quaranir.”   
“What _ is _ it?” Tharya repeated firmly, this time expecting her answer.

The Atmorans gave each other withering looks, as if deciding who should deliver the bad news.

“The Book of the Damned,” one of them murmured, still in shock. A thick silence fell over the tomb. Not one of them moved or spoke; whatever this _ Book of the Damned _ was, it didn’t sound good. Nothing with “damned” in the title could be good. Torygg moaned into the silence, his ribs clicking as he bent over Miraak’s staff in another attempt to remove it. But it was useless; he hit his bony hands against the wood like a piece of paper floating against a brick wall. “The Book of the Damned,” the blond Atmoran repeated, “belonged to a very dangerous necromancer from long ago. They boasted to be the offspring of Afreik, a god of our religion who betrayed the other gods. This necromancer went around after one of the great Atmoran wars and began raising soldiers from the dead, terrorizing the northern half of the continent which had already been ravaged by battles. It took the entire army, the Arcane College, the Divine Brotherhood and even some of our order to stop them.”

_ He remembers so much of our homeland, _ Miraak’s voice was quiet and resigned in her head. Tharya caught his eyes across the room, looking interested in what his twin was saying but...forlorn that he could not remember it too. _ The Arcane College, the Brotherhood, even Afreik—all these names are familiar to me, but far away, like a dream. _

“This book, however harmless it may seem, contains the soul of that necromancer, and all their evil magic. It shouldn’t be opened unless absolutely necessary. And only by someone who can reject its magic.”

Veros stared at the metal clasp. She had heard the book talking to her, whispering in her ear. Promising her things. She had felt its pull, its tug, like she was being led downwards into an unending spiral of nothing. Of blackness. Of death. “Quaranir would not have given it to us if he didn’t believe we might have use for it.” Even as she spoke, they all watched as Miraak adjusted his grip on his staff and crouched near the little book, outstretching one hand to it.  
“Do you think yourself strong enough, _ ziinmah? _ ” It was aimed at his counterpart, golden gaze sliding up to him from the floor. Slowly, the blue-eyed mage nodded. A green glow encased Miraak’s dark hand and five little glyphs appeared at each of his fingertips. Carefully, digits arched, he picked up the book, pinching it like a wet rag. As the glyphs hissed and sparked, the book seemed to _ vibrate _ against his grasp; he tossed into the waiting hands of his counterpart, shaking the steam off his fingers.   
“Hold on, hold on.” Cara cut in. “What exactly are we looking for? Does a spell that turns a zombie back into a human exist?”

  
Tharya groaned.   
“Let’s hope.”

* * *

Sanguine eyed the Dunmer carefully. She was pretty, all things considered. Less wrinkly than her countrymen, her eyes a little less the color of blood and more dull, like a rose. Her hair was short and black, her browbone prominent and sharp, parallel to her jaw and cheeks. But her looks would do little to save her whenever the First Dragonborn returned. The big scary one, not the other one with whom Sanguine had civilized conversations. No, the one who had thrown him into a wall and threatened to disembowel him with his bare hands...that one. If Miraak was going to wail on him for being a traitor, he sure would be _ pissed _ to find this girl working for them. Supposing all Quaranir had said rang true, she was the entire reason this Dragon Break was happening; her thirst for knowledge had led to recklessness, recklessness to blindness, and blindness had led to a bad deal with powerful beings who would undoubtedly come to betray her in the end.   
  


_ Sounds familiar. _

“What reason do we have to trust you?” Jyggalag spoke. His voice was grating like Sheogorath’s but lower and less prone to rise an octave at random. He stood beside Sanguine with his metal arms crossed, bright eyes narrowed on the Psijics. The movement of Quaranir’s face told them he hadn’t thought about a reason to trust the Dunmer girl beside him; he just _ did _, on instinct. Maybe they worked together before, maybe they were friends. Master and apprentice. Secret lovers. The list went on.

“You propose a forbidden sword technique to save the world, but how do we know you will not use it to break it further?”

Rumaea dug her fingernails into her palms until her grey skin turned angry pink. She had not expected them to trust her, but when Quaranir had let her sit for tea she’d felt some hope. Maybe he would listen. Maybe, just maybe, she could set things right. She needed the chance.

“The Ansei could control their powers with relative ease. It’s the summoning of a _ shehai _ that we should worry about.”   
“But the _ pankratosword _ sank nearly all of Yokuda and killed hundreds of thousands of people.” Jyggalag scoffed. “It altered history drastically and could’ve scarred the heavens if it was delivered by a stronger force of sword-singers.”

Rumaea clasped her fingers around her wrist behind her back, pacing towards the big tree in the center of the courtyard. Vibrant sunlight cascaded down from the sun directly above them, but there was the lightest blue tinge to it. An unsettling blue tinge. “But we only have one.”  
“Who has the strength and magical ability of three.” Quaranir shook his head, glancing to the Dunmer as she stared up at the tree.   
“Even so, you are all forgetting one crucial fact. The _ pankratosword _ can only be delivered by a _ shehai _ . No mortal blade will do. If he is to use it, he must manifest his _ shehai _ first.”

Rumaea felt the blood drain from her face, straight out of her shoulders and down through her toes into the stone walkway. Of course. How could she have forgotten? Why had she thought that any regular blade could _ defy nature? _ How could she have overlooked such a simple but critical factor?   
“A _ shehai _ will take days to manifest, and that is _ if _ we’re lucky. Days we don’t have to waste.”

Jyggalag gave her some kind of look—somewhere between empathy and confusion, an odd mix. He knew something she obviously didn’t, if he was looking at her like that. But what?  
“We can force it out of him.” He said finally, and the entire atmosphere seemed to shift. Before it had been an intense conversation between like minds; now it felt...isolated. Violent. They had turned from scheming to save the world to plotting the imminent pain of one of their allies. Even the tree seemed to grow dull now, uninteresting, the light blinding rather than warm.

Slowly, Quaranir began to shake his head, his grass green eyes focused on the ground.  
“That is more likely to kill him. We have no means of resurrecting him a second time...” he gave them all narrow looks. “And I have no wish to explain to Tharya that the four of us sat around planning to sacrifice her partner because we did not think ahead.”

Jyggalag fell quiet, finding his next words while the others waited and watched him. Yes, it was true. Killing the Yokudan would be no good, and would perhaps turn their only other allies against them. Though he doubted that, it was always better to keep one’s friends happy. So how could they force a _ shehai _ in one night? How could they provoke a physical manifestation of the soul, an event that usually took months of practice and meditation? His mind traveled to every possibility. Jyggalag had never seen a _ shehai _ in use before. He had not seen the Ansei of Ancient Yokuda or seen the destruction they brought upon the continent many eras ago. The sword-singers and stone magicks had all but died out with the sinking of the continent and the prior defeat of the Hiradirge. Now, after centuries of a world devoid of the Yokudan spellswords of old, they had one night to call forth a Yokudan’s soul and make it take shape. The risk of killing him, paralyzing him, rendering him blind or deaf or speechless was just as high as their chance of succeeding.

“The Nord woman,” he said finally, “she has some form of empathetic magic. And the elf, the dark-haired girl, she does as well. If they can combine their power they may be able to force the _ shehai _from him. Or aid in its manifestation.”

  
Sanguine pressed the toe of his boot into the ground before sighing.   
“That’s the easy part,” he muttered, raising his eyes to meet the inquisitive gazes of his companions, “the hard part is getting them to agree.”

* * *

The chanting filled the room like a dirge, low and solemn but unending. There was no room for breaths or breaks in between; each word flowed directly into the next, each verse into its successor, like a river flowing surely to the sea. A venomous red glow emanated from the little book held in his pale hands—closed now, after they had hurriedly found the spell needed and drawn the appropriate glyphs. It was deceptively easy to replace a zombie, or _ striogi _ as the Atmorans said, to its human body. Miraak’s stormy blue eyes were closed and he looked almost like a corpse in the contrasting dim and red lights, with Cara standing close by, one eye trained on the Book of the Damned. 

The glyph Torygg was standing in had been drawn by the tip of Tharya’s spear, since they didn’t have blood or paint to spare and her spear left a thin trail of gold magic behind it. He looked around his feet at it, rubbing his toes into the bright lines and moaning when they didn’t vanish. As if magic from a god-given spear could be rubbed out like a stain. 

  
“Hold on,” though Miraak heard Cara’s voice he didn’t stop chanting. The Book had specifically instructed not to do that. “He’s beginning to change.” The Dragon Priest opened his eyes, words he had spoken so many times their meanings were lost on him tumbling from his lips. And sure enough, the former High King was feeling the extent of this necromantic magic. Beside his voice a low hum had filled the room, thrumming like blood in the veins. The air became thick and static, almost unbearable to speak into. He forced every sound out, every syllable. Everything seemed to be weighed down in mud; even time felt sluggish.

Within the confines of the glyph Torygg was curled on the floor, his body twitching and jerking whichever way it could, limbs striking out only to be folded back in. A murderous wail rose from his decayed lips as his back arched up, nearly doubled backwards on itself. The sickening crack and rearranging of bones reached their ears. Tharya unconsciously reached for the Yokudan’s hand, and then took Veros’s as well. The shrieking rose, an ungodly and terrible sound. It continued, deafening and defeating, draining all hope from her mind. Torygg was in there somewhere, he had to be.

_ Nothing has gone in our favor since Torygg died _.

If this Dragon Break had truly been that long in the making...

_ Nothing has gone in our favor since Torygg died. _

If all they needed was Torygg’s life to set things right...

_ Nothing has gone in our favor since Torygg died. _

Suddenly he shot up from inside the circle, straining on his tiptoes, arms taut and angled behind him, neck stretching to throw his head back. His wail turned _ evil _, guttural and dark. The candles in the room went dark, blown out by a foul wind. They were drenched in a thick blanket of darkness. Miraak’s voice climbed higher and higher in order to combat the noise. A draft curled around their ankles, a cold draft that swirled into a windstorm that whipped at their hair and clothes, forcing their eyes shut.

“** _No!_ **” The shout was barely audible above the commotion, but Tharya felt him tear away from her side. He trudged into the magical storm, feeling his way with arms outstretched. What was he going towards? Gods, what could he possibly be doing?

“Miraak!” She made to go after him but Veros tugged her back. They watched together as his silhouette grew nearer to the chanting Atmoran, who seemed stuck in a trance with the Book of the Damned in his hands. And it was...open.

“** _You must close it!_ **” Miraak roared to his counterpart, and the whole of Solitude must’ve shook with his Voice. 

And then, there was an explosion of light. Everything fell...silent. The candles flickered one by one back into being, offering a warm glow that broke the wind and chased it away. The ritual circle slowly vanished into the stone floor, with Torygg naked and covered in a greenish-brown sludge.

“_Ziinmah! _ ” Miraak’s voice was closer now and they watched as the spell let go of him too; he pounced forward onto the blond Atmoran with a few lunging steps, tackling him to the floor and hurling the Book of the Damned from his hands. The ground beneath their feet trembled with a shockwave of powerful magic. The Book fell open a few yards away. Its pages were bent and yellowed but its covers...began to jerk. Like hiccups, they would flinch upwards. A puff of oddly colored smoke left the binding. Another hiccup and another cloud, and another and another until they were coming together to form a face in the air.   
“What’s happening to him?” Cara yelled, kneeling beside the man. “Where—where is his _ face? _ ”   
“Hold still. It is coming back.” Miraak ordered, scowling as the leather journal snapped closed. A bone chilling laugh wafted into the room.

“_Nothing heeere.....nothing heeeere...” _ He wrenched it open and the laugh turned into a scream, bloody and high-pitched. But the clouds of smoke rushed out all at once, creating a hazy visage in midair. It was sucking the blond Atmoran's features up one by one, leaving his face smooth, wispy... Cara scrambled away from the floating face just as Miraak lifted his scimitar to pierce the book—

And a golden spear flew past his legs to bury itself in the cover, embedding itself straight through every page and out the back. The face suspended in the air immediately dissipated and one by one, eyebrow by eyebrow, nostril by lip, eyelash by eyelash...all features settled once again on their owner’s face.

“Good gods,” Miraak gasped, sitting heavily on the ground beside Cara, “if you had become one of the Faceless, I would not have liked to kill you.”  
“Faceless?” Tharya echoed, wrenching her spear from the Book. It gave a pitiful whine. “Sounds gross.”

“It felt gross,” the Atmoran sat up on his elbows with a groan, rubbing his forehead, “_ kogaan, ziinmah. _” Miraak waved him off. 

“We should get back to Artaeum to tell Quaranir and the others.” Veros put in, standing a few feet away with her arms crossed.  
“Tell them...?”

  
Even with her mask, they could tell the Dunmer was giving them a questioning look. The slight cock of her head only reinforced that idea. With one little gesture she stepped away and gave them a clear view of where Torygg half-crouched, arms—or rather, his one arm and his stump arm, which, oddly enough, wasn’t bleeding at all—wrapped tightly around his shivering torso. His brown eyes were wild and confused, his lips trembling without the strength to speak.   
  
“That Torygg is alive, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my apologies i kinda gave up on the last scene


	25. The Council of Artaeum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took so long! this fic is slowly killing me! the writing is a little wonky bc this took me two weeks to write & i'm getting lazy

_ “What lovely hair you have, my son. How did you get it so soft?” _ _  
_ _ Miraak shrugged. “Conditioner.” _

_ When he opened his eyes he was lying in an endless field, a pristine blue sky with floating white clouds above him. Gentle fingers were combing through his curls along with a cool breeze. _ _  
_ _ “Móna,” he sat up suddenly, surveying the little white flowers that bent to greet him in the wind. Yarrows. His mother’s favorite. Without thinking he took one from the grass, examining it in the sunlight. _ _  
_ _ “Yes, dii shulviin?” Althëa’s hands fell into her lap. Miraak squinted. _ _  
_ _ “Where are we?” _ _  
_ _ “You truly do not know?” She looked around and then took the yarrow from between his fingers. “Come. Let us walk.” _

_ Together they got to their feet, Althëa holding his arm to her side as they strolled through the flowers and tall, golden grass. _ _  
_ _ “How strong you’ve become, darling.” She squeezed his bicep. “All you had to do in Oblivion was lift heavy books?” _ _  
_ _ Miraak threw his head back to laugh. “Tharya has said the same thing countless times, Móna, I cannot have you ogling me as well.” _ _  
_ _ “I am not _ ** _ogling_ ** _ you, darling, I am merely...admiring the fruit of my labor. And what a painful labor it was, you little devil.” Another laugh bubbled in his chest—was this what his mother was like? Was this what he had missed? Her humor was a close parallel to his own, but he had not expected it from a short, pudgy Atmoran woman who had lived at the dawn of civilization. “Tharya.” She sighed suddenly. “What a pretty name. Very unique; strong. Nordic. It suits her. Tell me of this Tharya.” _

_ The First Dragonborn rolled his eyes and watched the white flowers disappear below his boots. _ _  
_ _ “She is...crazy.” He closed his eyes and inhaled, the scent of fresh grass in the air. “And wonderful. And hilarious.” _ _  
_ _ “And beautiful?” _ _  
_ _ “So incredibly beautiful,” he groaned, “though...I wish sometimes she would go without her warpaint. But I know it is not my place to be making demands.” _ _  
_ _ “Good boy.” _ _  
_ _ “I am not a cave man, Móna, I know how to respect women.” When he looked up again there was a shimmering lake on the horizon, stretching for miles in either direction. It looked to have steam evaporating off the surface, but the closer they got he realized it was wisps of pale magic. What lake was this...? _

_ “Go on, darling.” Althëa patted his arm. “Tell me more.” _ _  
_ _ Miraak narrowed his eyes on the lake but obliged his mother. “She is much smarter than she lets on, or seems to think. And an excellent artisan. It is truly amazing, Móna, the skill she has with her hands.” When he looked Althëa’s eyes were focused on the lake that was rapidly approaching them, its gleaming surface growing brighter and closer with every step. This whole place, this lake, this very field reeked of familiarity. Everything felt comfortable and yet foreign to him; how long had it been since he had seen Atmora as it used to be? And how long since he had step foot here, even if it was just a dream? _

_  
_ _ “As is the custom of our people, I brought you here when you were a baby.” Althëa said suddenly, grabbing her skirt with her free hand. “This lake is sacred to all Atmorans, for it is where our kind first emerged to walk on the land the gods had sculpted for us.” Miraak felt his feet stop of their own accord. This...this place she had been bringing him all along, it was...Vatus Pætrio. The tendrils of milky white magic rising from the crystalline surface gave an air of divinity. It was hard to imagine anyone wishing to disturb the lake’s serenity by wading into it, much less bathing a child. “When you were nearly a year old I brought you here. Much later than I should have, but...when your father left, I faced many troubles.” _

_ There was a new presence beside him, but before Miraak could look away Jondor spoke. _ _  
_ _ “I was too selfish to see what consequences you’d face with my being gone, sunflower. I’m sorry.” _

_ Althëa laughed, leaning around her son to see her husband. _ _  
_ _ “There is no need for apologies now, darling, we are dead anyway.” _

_ Miraak could not bring himself to hold his father’s gaze. They were too much alike, the both of them. Too similar; it was like looking into a mirror only to find an older, long-haired version of himself, a version he associated with years of hurt and heartache and anger. He guessed Jondor felt the same way, by the sparse glances he aimed at his son. And on top of it, he had nothing to say to his father. No words to speak, no accusations to hurl, no pleas to give. So he stood quietly between his parents, all at once feeling invisible and like a child being talked over. _ _  
_ _ “Dii shulviin, I brought you here for a very specific reason.” Althëa was speaking to him again, and now he was aware that Jondor had placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. He wanted to move away, but he had to try, didn’t he? Recovery was a joint effort. “When I spoke to Morokei last, he said that you had spent hours upon hours meditating when you were a Priest, searching to regain the memories of your childhood. Of myself, of where you were born.” _

_ Jondor looked mildly impressed. “Can that work?” _ _  
_ _ “It did,” Miraak spoke up, “though it only brought me hazy renditions of memories, never the whole thing.” _

_ “And I have brought you to our sacred lake so that you might be able to regain what you’re looking for.” She let go of his arm at long last and put a hand on his back, giving him a little nudge forward. “So what you started in the harbor may finally be done.” _

_ The harbor? She couldn’t possibly mean Solitude? When he had thrown the necklace into the water, in the hopes that the liquid from Vatus Pætrio would somehow bless the salty sea and he could lower himself in to be reborn a second time. _

_ Despite the questions running amok in his head he found himself shrugging his robes off as he strode with purpose to the lake’s edge, stopping only to toe his boots off. Vatus Pætrio wanted him here. He didn’t know why, or how he knew that, but he simply knew. He could feel it. The magic danced out to greet him and lit a fire in his veins he had not felt before. Vatus Pætrio was beckoning him, calling for him. Welcoming him home. _

** _What you started in the harbor may finally be done._ **

_ He looked back only once to see his parents standing there, and for the first time he managed to meet his father’s eyes. It was disconcerting, looking back into one’s own gaze, but he held it nonetheless. Jondor smiled at him, but still he could not smile back. Miraak waded slowly into the water, which seemed to glow all around him. It was cool against his hot skin. All of Atmora seemed to be watching him, every hill and tree bent to see, every faroff mountain craned to listen. Welcoming home their last surviving son. Their last heir. Their last rebirth. _

_ Without a second thought he dove underwater and closed his eyes, lingering there for as long as he could. His body felt weightless. He felt calm and soothed, like he could fall asleep where he floated. The need for air seemed to escape him, and when at last he broke the surface he did so with a gasp, warm spring air flooding his burning lungs. Everything was so light, so easy. So safe, so sound. He had been scrubbed clean by a mere rinse. Everything was gone and yet everything was here; all had left and yet all had returned. Even his body felt new, and as he flexed his fingers and examined himself it was uncanny to see it was still his body, the same one he’d carried through the centuries, the same one he’d carried into this lake. The sunlight was warm and gentle on his face and the water around his stomach was cushioned; like he had never felt these things before. _

_ From below, a voice crawled its way up to him, gliding with ease through the water, summoning a breeze to take itself up to his ears. A quiet but no less beautiful voice, serene and soothing. _

** _Miraak....Althëasson...arise._ **

_ And in that moment, he knew he had been reborn. _

“What?”

When he blinked both Morokei and Vahlok were staring at him, waiting patiently with expectant looks in their eyes. Miraak looked down at his hands wrapped around a ceramic tea cup, arms resting on the wooden table, planted in a chair on solid flooring. He was...on Artaeum?  
“Everything is well, _ dii kul? _ ” Morokei put a weathered hand on his wrist and the First Dragonborn nearly recoiled in shock. He was _ real_. His skin was soft and leathery, calloused, and _ real_. It had been four thousand years since he had spoken to Morokei face to face, in the flesh. Their meetings in the Void and in his dreams were incomparable to this.  
“_Geh._” Miraak replied finally, but his voice did not make it sound convincing. “Why do you ask?”  
“You were staring at your tea for a minute there,” Vahlok supplied as he clapped one hand on his brother’s shoulder, “and you muttered something.”

Dark brows knit together. “What did I say?”  
Vahlok shrugged. “_Althëasson _ , or some such?”  
“_Geh_.” ** _Miraak....Althëasson...arise. _ ** “_Unslaad krosis. _ I did not sleep well last night.” He watched Vahlok raise one suggestive eyebrow. “Not that, _ mey_.” Morokei squeezed his wrist and gave it a reassuring pat before letting go. He was still unused to the sight of the older mage sitting just beside him, his crimson robes just as perfect as they had been thousands of years ago. His hand left an odd tingling sensation on his skin, layered with mysterious magic that almost felt connected to the Dragon Break.  
  
“Tell me again, _ zeymah_, how you came here.”

Just as he asked for Vahlok’s explanation once more Tharya and Ayera entered the room, blunt training swords in their hands.  
“...sounds different than the one in my timeline. A little more murderous, I think,” the Nord was saying, her eyes falling on the three Dragon Priests almost immediately. _ Am I interrupting? _ Miraak rubbed his hands over his face. ** _Niid, ahtlahzey. Come sit._ **

“Are you sure about that?” Ayera laughed a little, giving her companion a disbelieving look. “Yours _ did _ make plans to ritually kill the whole Grey Quarter.”  
“Yeah, that’s true. Well,” she made a vague gesture to the three Atmorans, “I think we might’ve stumbled into some classified meeting.” Ayera looked over with a little surprise written into her snowy features.  
“Oh. Apologies,” she nodded towards the trio.  
“It is of no import, my dear.” Morokei smiled back.  
“If there’s time, we can get back to training tomorrow, if you want?” Tharya offered, extending a hand to the elf. Ayera smiled and took her hand.  
“If the world doesn’t end before then.” Tharya laughed.

“If the world doesn’t end before then, indeed.” The white-haired elf left with another apology, closing the doors to the common room quietly behind her. That left only the Nord, standing there with two rusty training swords in her trousers and a loose, sleeveless shirt.

Miraak felt a grin touch his lips. ** _Is it cold outside, ahtlahzey?_ **

Tharya scowled back at him. _ Nipples are a part of human anatomy, General Chucklefuck. If the winters are as cold in Atmoran as you say, then you’ve definitely seen a nipple before. _

Vahlok and Morokei nearly started out of their chairs when the First Dragonborn barked out a laugh, shaking his head. His brother looked bewildered but Morokei only leaned back in his chair, folding his hands into his sleeves and looking oddly content.  
“It has been many ages since I have heard you laugh, _ dii kul _ .” Tharya straightened out at that, her brow creasing together.  
“My son...? Oh. Oh shit.” She began to wipe her sweaty palms against her pants, hastily putting the swords down. “Uh...Morokei, right?”  
“Introduce us, boy.” The older mage hit Miraak lightly on the arm, prompting him to stand and meander his way to Tharya. _ You couldn’t even bother to put a shirt on for your dad? _ She teased. ** _You couldn’t be bothered to bathe before meeting my father?_ ** He put a hand on her lower back and gave her a tiny push forward.  
“_Paiðir_, _ zeymah_. Tharya. _ Dii lokaal, _ Morokei and Vahlok.” Vahlok pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to hug her, much to her surprise. 

“Lovely to see you again, _ mal briinmah._” She laughed uncertainly—little sister?—and let go of him once her feet reconnected with the ground.  
“I don’t have to kill you this time, do I?” Vahlok threw his head back to laugh, stepping aside to present Morokei, who had joined them.  
“It seems you are familiar with both of my sons, and yet our paths have never crossed.” He extended his hand, searching her eyes for something. A little spark of recognition sparked behind those clear eyes; she did know his face from a meeting long ago. Impressive that she should remember.  
“No sir, I don’t believe we have.” Tharya said and shook his hand.  
“_Porvaer_, Morokei is more than appropriate. Come, sit with us. I believe our conversation will prove...beneficial.”

Tharya pulled over a fourth chair and wedged herself between Miraak and Morokei, taking a generous sip of the other Dragonborn’s tea.  
“I still don’t understand how you guys are here,” she said before gulping more tea down.

“Vahlok was just going to tell us about that,” Miraak slid her a look. Vahlok cleared his throat and nodded, leaning forward on his arms. 

“The borders between this world and the next have become so thin, we were able to use our magic in the Void and appear to you in corporeal forms. A risky venture, admittedly, and Ahzidal does not approve. But...we thought we could perhaps help you in this whole Dragon Break fiasco. Though you have two versions of my brother,” he grinned, and for a moment Tharya wondered if they truly weren’t related, “the might of the entire Solstheim priesthood at your back won’t hurt.”

Miraak pried his tea from pale fingers and drank the rest, clearing his throat. “And now the Psijic is talking of a council with the superiors of his Order, so perhaps they will aid us as well.”  
“A council?”  
“_Geh_. He informed us earlier, though I believe you were sparring.”

Morokei and Vahlok shared a look with one another. Morokei was the first to stand, reaching across the table for Miraak’s hand.  
“We will leave you to the rest of your morning, _ dii kul_. I expect the Psijic will want us all to be present for his council. Until then.”  
“_Kogaan_.” Miraak nodded. “Til later.” Vahlok said his goodbye to both of them and the two Dragon Priests whisked themselves out of the room. Tharya was up next, pulling his arm.  
“I really need a bath if we’re going to go talk to the Psijics. Come on.”

Together they left the common room and returned to their own quarters, the mid-morning light turning everything it touched into solid gold. He let her bathe in peace for a while, grateful for the illusion of privacy. It allowed him to draw. Though he had no idea why he was so secretive about his art, he didn’t intend to let her see it anytime soon. 

“You’re quiet.” Miraak didn’t look up from his sketch, but for a brief moment stopped the movement of the charcoal’s edge against the paper.  
“I apologize,” he replied finally, continuing the dark curve he had started.  
“You don’t have to apologize,” she laughed a little, “just making sure you’re alright.”  
“Tired.” He closed his eyes for a moment, however dangerous it was. If he closed them now, would he find the will to open them again? “I have not slept well as of late.”  
“I know.” Of course she knew. “You’ve been moving around a lot at night.”

“I-”  
“Don’t apologize,” he could hear the smile on her lips, “is there anything I can do?”  
  


Was there? Gods, there was always something he needed, even if he couldn’t name it at any given moment. Miraak looked down at the paper against his lap; a damn close likeness of that ex-Thalmor’s face. He didn’t know what had brought him to sketch each of their allies, as he was certain not many of them harbored anything but dislike for him, but he had. Theirs were faces he did not wish to forget, for some reason. Theirs were faces he felt obliged to carry even after they all returned to their own timelines, after this Dragon Break was sealed. 

“My brother, the other Priests, and my father—Morokei, rather—have all...more or less returned from the dead.” He squinted into the morning sun. “But some part of me wishes they had not.”  
“Because they’ll have to leave again.”  
“_Geh_. And it will leave just me. Again.”  
“Dukaan, though.”  
“And Dukaan.” Was that doubt in his voice? Speculation? “And now, I have met my real father...I have spoken with him, which I never thought a possibility. Yet.” His voice fell away on that one word. Miraak examined the landscape of the island, gazing out on the expanse of Artaeum. Out on the trees far away, on the rolling hills. 

Tharya watched him for a moment, trying to be as quiet as possible as she dried her hair with a towel. He _ looked _ tired, shoulders lowered from their usual broad, squared position, his arms limp and fingers unmoving against the paper. He hadn’t heard her stand from the bath or walk across the room, which was most unlike him. Miraak more than anyone was constantly aware of his surroundings.  
“Yet?” Cautiously she put her hands on his shoulders, following his line of sight out the window.  
“Yet I find it impossible to reconcile with him. I can’t...I can’t bring myself to forgive him. Or _ love _ him.” She put her chin on his scalp, sliding her hands forward to rest on his chest. His heartbeat was slow; his body felt asleep. “But I felt happiness when I saw Morokei. Happiness that should be attributed to the man whose blood I share, should it not?” She was quiet for a long moment, touching her nails lightly against the three-pronged scar decorating his skin. For the first time since Tharya had met him, Miraak sounded confused. Lost. Love was no simple subject for anyone, but for a man who had been abandoned and betrayed, and in turn abandoned and betrayed others...she couldn’t imagine the difficulty.  
“Because Morokei is your family.” Tharya said finally. “Morokei, Vahlok, and your mother. They’re all your family.”  
“But Vahlok is not truly my brother, nor Morokei truly my father.”  
“Aren’t they?” Her fingers slid through his hair. “A lot of people don’t think so, but.” Both her hands patted his chest in tandem and she stepped away from him, leaving a cold opening around his shoulders and neck. “Family doesn’t have to be chosen for you. It can be found.”

He closed his eyes again.  
“And I like that drawing.”

* * *

Quaranir, however much he wanted to, could not stop the pacing of his feet. Back and forth they carried him in front of the dim fireplace, back and forth, back and forth at an agonizingly slow pace. Everything felt slow. Insufficient. Throne-Breaker and the Yokudan were _ late_. As were Ayera and Erador. Cara, Miraak, Jyggalag, Sanguine and Veros all sat around in mild disinterest and boredom, with Rumaea standing stock still in the center of the room. Auri-El, _ Rumaea _ was here. The one who had betrayed their Order and stolen their books. Stolen their maps to ancient relics, stolen the pride and confidence of the Psijic Order. He had kept her secret until now, like a snatched candy, but here they were about to present themselves to the Council of Artaeum. In a plea for help, no less. He could imagine it now; his robes would be stripped from him, his rank taken, his admittance to the Order revoked. He’d be thrown back onto the streets of Summerset, no doubt. And Rumaea, gods, he feared what they would do to her.

  
“Would you stop that pacing?” She approached him from the left, reaching for his arm. It brought him to a tumbling halt, his back and shoulders rigid. “What is it you’re dreading so much?”  
“I _ told _ the Council when this all began,” he nearly shouted, earning a few odd looks from the others gathered. Quaranir cleared his throat before starting again, his voice barely above a tight whisper. “I told the Council when this all began that the Dragon Break was undoubtedly Tharya’s fault.”  
“Why would you do that?”  
“I knew they would not let me do what I did, bring the rest of the Dragonborns here, if I could not pinpoint the cause of this...damned mess. First they needed to identify the cause of the Break, or else Pellrion would’ve convinced them it was no Break at all. _ I _ was assigned to watch over Tharya after the Eye of Magnus incident, so I knew that if I could find something substantial in her...doings, I could get the support I needed.”

Rumaea shook her head, raising a dark eyebrow at him. “Why is this a problem?”  
“Because she will be angry. And then her guard dog of a lover will be angry. And already he is not very popular with them,” he nodded towards the others, “and if Tharya sends this whole enterprise south, then we will be without Psijic help. And it will be ten of us against...how many?”  
“An army of Thalmor. Elenwen’s forces at the fort are relatively small, but she will undoubtedly call reinforcements.” Quaranir groaned, running his slender fingers through his hair, pushing his hood down in the process. “What can I do to help you?” Rumaea asked, her voice full of sympathy. He only shook his head. What _ could _ she do? There was nothing that came to mind. Gods, he didn’t even know why she betrayed the Thalmor in the first place. Why she had returned to the Psijics, to him, with a heart willing to fight her former allies.

“I heard there was some important council going on, and that we were all supposed to be here.” Tharya was standing in the doorway with the Yokudan brooding just behind her, as always. Dukaan stood to his left and Ayera and Erador were just against the wall.

“Yes! You’re late. Very late.” Quaranir pulled his hood up again. “The Council won’t like to be kept waiting.”  
“Then we should go to them,” Rumaea nodded staunchly. Tharya’s face twisted into confusion.  
“Who’s this?” She made a vague gesture to the Dunmer, stepping into the room. The Dragon Priests filtered in behind her. “Hold a moment.” Clear eyes narrowed on Rumaea as Tharya stalked forward, one hand on her staff. “I recognize you. You were...you were with Elenwen.” Suddenly there was a golden spear tip pointed directly for Rumaea’s grey throat, making her jump away and Quaranir step forward. “You were with Elenwen while she _ waterboarded _ me. Nice to see you again. Who the hell is this, Quaranir?”  
“Her name is Rumaea, she’s a Psijic-”  
“Psijic my ass! If she’s a Psijic _ why _ was she working with Elenwen?” Now everyone was on their feet, some hands moving to weapons, others lighting with magic. All eyes were trained on him, angry and questioning. “Start _ talking_, one of you. You’ve got a room full of angry Dragonborns who just figured out you invited the enemy to the party.”

Slowly, Rumaea lifted her hands in surrender, palms out. 

“Quaranir is correct. I am, or rather _ was_, a Psijic Monk. I left the Order some time ago to work with the Thalmor, but I’ve returned.”  
“Out of all two hundred and six bones in my body, not one of them believes you.” Tharya said.  
“How are we supposed to trust that explanation?” Veros quipped. “For all we know Quaranir has been in on your plan the whole time.” The masked woman seemed to fall into thought for a moment. “How convenient it is that you’ve gathered six Dragonborns here under the guise of an alliance.”

“I beg of you, listen to what she has to say.” Quaranir tried. “I believe she is telling the truth.”

“Fine. Let’s hear it.” 

* * *

“First Emissary, we’ve searched everywhere. The girl is nowhere to be found.”

Elenwen felt her fingers curl tightly at that; the words she had not wanted to hear, yet had known to be true from the start. From the moment Ondolemar had come to her quarters to tell her the girl was gone, she had known it was not a simple disappearance. No, a Psijic Monk did not simply vanish for no reason, especially when engaged in an _ alliance _. The girl had returned, most likely, to Artaeum. Whether to betray them or aid them, it was impossible to tell, but Elenwen was leaning towards the former.

“Then she is on Artaeum,” Ondolemar echoed her own thoughts aloud, “undoubtedly. Where else would she go?”  
“She could not be searching out another relic?”  
“Those maps were hidden from her,” Elenwen said, swiveling on one heel to face the two men standing near her desk. Ondolemar and the captain of the guard. “To...ensure her loyalty. Maps and any books containing information about the relics she sought were put away, and were to only be revealed after she served her purpose with this Dragon Break.” The captain looked uneasy, readjusting his gold fingers on the hilt of his sword. “Something is on your mind, man. Say it.”  
“All due respect, First Emissary,” he started meekly, as all who anticipate offending do, “what _ is _ the purpose of this Dragon Break? Besides killing the First Dragonborn.”

Elenwen sighed curtly, looking to Ondolemar for support. But he seemed just as interested in the captain’s question; gods, had he also lost track of their goals?  
“Killing that Redguard was only the beginning of our plans. I knew that, in doing so, the Last Dragonborn would seek a way to explain his death. I knew, from the girl, that another Psijic named Quaranir had been tasked with... _ supervising _ the Dragonborn after a particular incident at the College of Winterhold.” Ondolemar’s face soured at the memory of Ancano. “I knew, somehow, he would interfere. I was prepared to leave a trail for the Dragonborn to follow which would lead her to us, but through Quaranir’s own planfulness he discovered that for her. I theorized she would come here to exact revenge or perhaps try to save the First Dragonborn; as you know, that did not go as planned. But our other agent within the Psijic Order was able to transport the Dragonborn and her companion to us, even if he was not the First. So,” Elenwen laced her fingers together and pressed her palms to her stomach, “we are returned to square one. We must kill the First Dragonborn again, which will prove much easier now that Hermaeus Mora is caged.”

Ondolemar took one look at Elenwen’s pale skin, her frail, slender fingers, her sunken cheeks. Yes, it would be easier. But how long could they count on Hermaeus Mora being subdued?  
“But...that is not the _ purpose _ of the Break, m’lady.” The captain said.  
“The purpose of this Break is to rid the world of that _ pest _ calling herself the Last Dragonborn. She has done us all a service by defeating the World-Eater, true, but her political stance does not align with ours. By killing her, and the First Dragonborn, we will rob Skyrim of its trusted heroes, and consequently the two most powerful people in Tamriel. Which will allow our forces to return to the province and restore order, as it should’ve been three years ago.”

A silence hung over the three of them. Elenwen wilted into the chair behind her desk with an exhausted sigh, as if all that talking had worn her out. She looked ready to sleep. But there it was: the true reasoning behind this charade, the real motives behind Elenwen’s obsession with killing the Dragonborns. Her obsession with causing this Break, which she viewed only as a distasteful side effect to their ultimate end: a powerless and mourning Skyrim, free and ripe for the picking. In Elenwen’s own words, the Last Dragonborn was little more than a political rival, and the First was simply a means to an end. He almost felt pity for the poor man. To be dropped back into civilization after so long, only to be snuffed out in a matter of months, and brought back again. By the end of the week Ondolemar had no doubts he would be dead, this time for good. Elenwen had called for reinforcements some time ago and they would arrive soon. Then, with the Psijic girl’s portal magic, they would march on Artaeum. And the Last Dragonborn would join her lover in the cold and final embrace of death.

He watched the captain bow and leave, shutting the doors quietly behind him. Elenwen sighed again, her chest deflating.  
“First Emissary, I confess there is something that’s been...weighing on me, since that little rescue stunt.” Elenwen gave a vague wave of her hand for him to continue. “That man we pulled through with Throne-Breaker, the elf. He was...I knew him. Though, in my Fracture, he is dead. As is my wife.” A stiff snort.  
“She will be yours, Ondolemar. Don’t fret your pretty little head about it.”  
“No, First Emissary. Of her fate I have no doubts,” he spoke staunchly, “but she should not be _ alive_. Nor should Erador. Which leads me to believe-”  
“The Dragonborn, or the Psijics, have access to each Fracture as we do.” Elenwen finished. “Like I have pulled you and Ancano from different timelines to serve me here, they have also bolstered their forces.”  
“Which means there is no telling how many Dragonborn are gathered on Artaeum, if that is indeed where they are. There could be an army of them.”  
“And yet there is an army of us,” she said almost immediately. “Keep faith, Ondolemar. When the girl returns we will try to get as many answers from her as possible.”  
He swallowed. “After that?”

Elenwen’s gaze slid to him, and though he could not claim to be a mage of the highest caliber he could _ feel _ the sickly magic coating the First Emissary. It was invisible, untouchable, but it was undoubtedly there. Undoubtedly the cause of her decaying body.

  
“After that, we will kill her as well.”

* * *

Quaranir was beginning to find a new meaning in his tea leaves. _ Bad news is coming from the southeast _ . They had traveled down the southeast corridor to come to this open courtyard, and the ever-growing pit in his stomach told him that perhaps _ this _ would be the source of his bad news. This council. The four masters would become the source of his dread. He hoped to every god he was wrong.

The council was to be seated on a raised dais made of stone which elevated them to be even above the heads of the Atmorans. The big tree in the center of the courtyard cast a mottled shadow, under which he directed his charges to stand. The Dragon Priests formed a back row, while the four Last Dragonborns stood before them. He and Rumaea stood together off to the side.

“Game faces.” Tharya said aloud. “This is the worst enemy. Probably second only to the Cyclops.”

Vahlok raised an eyebrow. “It’s a council, _ Laat Dovahkiin._”

“A council of old men who have been in power their whole lives.” Tharya turned to look at him. “Now _ that _ is dangerous.” Morokei chortled from where he stood but Ahzidal didn’t seem impressed, his gaze moving towards Miraak.  
“Still I am wondering what drove you to such an insolent girl, runt. Perhaps you are one in the same.”

Vahlok rolled his eyes. “Four thousand years later and you still can’t even call him by his name, Grand Mage?” He retorted. Miraak rolled his shoulders and sighed, content to ignore Ahzidal’s name-calling.  
“You fought a Cyclops?” Morokei looked excited, the lines of his face shifting to allow a kind smile. “I must hear that story.” Tharya leaned back and shrugged at him.  
“Wasn’t as much of a fight as it was...running away scared shitless?”

Quaranir cleared his throat theatrically, and all attention swiveled to him. There were four Altmer approaching them, walking towards the stone dais and its chairs. Without a word they took a seat and smoothed their robes in near perfect unison before Quaranir stepped forward.  
“My friends,” he said uncertainly, “it is my honor to present to you Masters Aranturr, Pellrion, Ganerion, and Syndillin, the Council of Artaeum.” He bowed deeply to the four men. “Esteemed Council, may I introduce to you-”

One of them raised a palm with slender, bony fingers attached. Ganerion. His hair was white and long, and he stared down at them from above the jagged terraces of his cheekbones.  
“You need not list them.” There was a long silence after that. Ganerion leaned towards Syndillin to murmur against his ear. Pellrion steepled his fingers and pushed them against his lips, sliding his gaze over the assembled group with a scrutinizing gaze. His gaze lingered on each of them for an unsettling length of time, forcing eye contact but daring them to look away. Finally he looked at the blonde Nord standing with her spear in one hand, examining the stone beneath her boots.

“Tharya Throne-Breaker.” It was Syndillin speaking. “I am surprised Quaranir has brought you before us. Step forward.” 

Tharya raised an eyebrow and did as told, separating herself from the rest of them. She clicked her spear against the stone.

“Why would you be surprised? I’m the Dragonborn of this timeline.”

“And yet you are the reason we are in this mess,” another of the council crowed, his voice shrill and annoying, like a mosquito buzzing in her ear. “Your actions, particularly in the last _ year _ , have weakened Time so immensely that it has broken entirely. At the very least,” the mage steepled his fingers, “that is what Quaranir told us.”  
“Supposedly that’s what he told everyone.” Tharya muttered.  
“The purpose of this Council isn’t to trade insults. At the end of the day, it’s said and done,” Cara piped up, “and the Break is still here. It’s still our job to stop it.” Pellrion sat up and nodded slowly, folding his hands into his robes.  
“You are right, of course. Quaranir has not informed us of the _ true _purpose of this meeting, however.”

There was a silence before Erador snorted. “Isn’t it obvious?”  
“Ah, the former Thalmor agent speaks.” Pellrion murmured.  
“We need your help. _ Psijic _ help against the Thalmor will boost our chances, which are already...” he looked around. “Slim to none. Fifteen of us against the bulk of the Thalmor force? We’ll all die.”

Zahkriisos barked out a laugh. “Charming fellow.”

“But Quaranir informed us that a Daedric Prince has been entrapped in this ordeal.” Ganerion motioned to the Psijic. “We were told he had come to a solution concerning that...dilemma?” Rumaea nodded.  
“Yes, Master Ganerion, though I must say-”  
“Nothing from you, girl!” Syndillin shouted suddenly, silencing her. “You should be glad we have not yet had you killed! You are a traitor to this Order. It is lenient enough to have allowed you to be here. We do not know why you have returned, but we will not hear a word from you,” Syndillin gave a little flick of his hand, like he was shooing a fly. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

She slunk back a few steps and nodded once to Quaranir, who cleared his throat again before continuing.

“I do not believe I need to lecture you, Masters, or anyone here on the fate of the ancient continent of Yokuda.” Miraak’s head swung up, eyes narrowed in interest. “And how its fate came to be.”  
“For those of us who don’t know-” Ayera spoke up, but Miraak cut her off.  
“Yokuda had been ravaged by civil wars for centuries, on and off. It all but ruined their trading relationship with us towards the end of the Merethic Era.” Ayera raised an eyebrow.  
“_Us? _”

“Atmora,” Dukaan clarified.  
“In Yokudan society there was a group known as sword-singers, or Ansei. A branch of Ansei known as the Hiradirge had been causing unrest for years, but the Yokudan government defeated them. To exact their revenge,” he crossed gazes with Pellrion, “the Hiradirge summoned their _ shehai _ and struck the ground. If they could not have Yokuda...”

The snowy-haired elf nodded slowly, a look of understanding crossing her pale features. “No one could.”  
“Indeed.” Miraak clasped his hands behind his back. “The swordstroke they used was called the _ pankratosword_, a stroke that is rumored to defy the very laws of nature, magic, Time, and perhaps even Life.”

“It is not merely _ rumored_, boy.” Aranturr spoke for the first time since he sat. His voice was low, quiet, and he looked older than the other three Psijics combined. Unlike the others, he spoke with no malice, no preconceived prejudice or notions of superiority. “The _ pankratosword _ did indeed break the great continent of Yokuda.” Aranturr stood slowly with little grunts of elderly struggle, leaning on a warped and dark wooden staff. He was tall and thin, golden skin like pale paint in the sun. “Though not all of it was sunk, the remaining populations left. The Ansei were hunted. Some refined their techniques and vowed to serve the country, but they were never truly trusted after the fall. Very few remain today. Sword-singing it considered an ancient art, a thing of antiquity.”

Aranturr hobbled slowly past his counterparts and off the dais. The group parted to allow him to approach Miraak to pat his arm.  
“I have faith in your abilities, boy.”

“Faith?” Pellrion snorted. “What will we be needing faith for, Master Aranturr?” The elder only turned to look at Quaranir, making a little gesture with his staff to the three remaining Psijics. Recognition dawned on their faces even before he spoke a word.

“I believe that we can use the _ pankratosword _ to free Hermaeus Mora.” He almost sounded ashamed of his idea, admitting his guilt before it was even presented to him.

A wind danced through the courtyard, edged with the promise of a cool spring evening. And then a shrill voice broke it:

“Are you mad?! That sword stroke would sooner kill us all than seal the sky!”

“It is our only option thus far, Master Pellrion-“

“Hold your tongue, Quaranir. This Council hereby orders you to cease and desist all actions pertaining to this Dragon Break.”

“Master Pellrion...the _ pankratosword_, when wielded correctly, can reap great benefits. It may be the only way to release Hermaeus Mora-“

“_When wielded correctly. _As I recall, last time you approached this council you gave a rather detailed description of the First Dragonborn.”

Quaranir blanched and looked at his hands for a moment.

“That was before I knew him.” 

Miraak stepped forward. “What description was given?” He asked. The courtyard fell utterly silent. The birds seemed to have disappeared. “I say again, what description was given of me? I have a right to know.”

Pellrion reclaimed his seat.

“If I recall correctly,” he began, steepling his fingers, “you were presented to us as a short-tempered, arrogant brute. Of which I have found little evidence to refute.” Inch by inch Miraak deflated like a pressed bellow. He opened his mouth but did not speak. “And one of such stature has no business with something as powerful as the _ pankratosword_. To allow you to carry out this plan would make us delusional,” Pellrion snorted. “And I will not leave our fate to chance and an ill-tempered Redguard.”

“Atmoran.” Miraak said immediately. 

“Pardon?”

“I am Atmoran.” He sneered, arms taut. “Not a _ Redguard._” His jaw clicked as he spoke, cheeks tightening once the words had left his mouth.

“Your race is of little importance to us. If you were an Ehlnofey I would still not allow you to carry out this plan. Quaranir, you have heard our judgement.” Together the four Psijics stood. “You are to abandon all notion of this _ pankratosword _ and instead pursue another course of action, or wait upon your superiors to find a solution. Until then, if any of you dare to put into motion even a _ part _of this ridiculous scheme, you will all be expelled from the island of Artaeum. Indefinitely. As for you.” Pellrion’s eagle gaze landed on Rumaea. “You will be executed in two day’s time for your treachery.”

A thick and unmovable silence deeper into open courtyard, oozing from every nook in the wall, trudging down the walls to encase their feet, silencing their mouths. Miraak's eyes were fixed on the stone below his boots as he listened to the sentence be handed down. Quaranir and Rumaea could not look at each other. The Solstheim Priests shifted uncomfortably, but they all looked beyond malcontent. Erador ran his fingers through his hair.

“You will come to regret this decision,” Morokei spoke suddenly, his brown eyes hard and disappointed. “And when the rest of the world falls to this vicious thing, this untamed beast...”

The Council of Artaeum looked down on him.

“You will fall to the blame.”


	26. Ansei Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i proofread? no. some additional scene writing provided by trailtothetruth :)

There was a voice floating around the hallway, someone singing loudly and clearly in a crisp baritone. Regardless she continued on to the forge, the only place deserted enough on these mornings to read, to escape from the hellish blue destruction of the world through the bound pages of the book in her hand. The voice faltered away in favor of laughter, joined with another before lapsing into the low murmur of a private conversation. Veros drew closer, slowing her stride and shuffling silently along until she was just at the doorway. A blast of artificial, smokey heat rose from inside, and then a familiar voice:

"Set a precedent my ass. Did you hear what Pellrion said afterwards? That getting involved would _ set a precedent for Psijic involvement in worldly affairs? _ Or that they can't meddle with _ political affairs? _ " It was Tharya speaking, sounding disgruntled but resigned. “I don’t see how the destruction of Nirn is a _ political affair_.”  
“There are other factors to consider.” The new voice was chilling, low, with a rough northern accent. She knew that voice, though sometimes she wished she didn’t. “The Thalmor are indeed a political force at their core. And an order of such caliber as the Psijics cannot be seen working with those who betray their ranks,” Miraak pointed out, “and I cannot argue with them if they believe our methods crude.” There was a silence before one of them sighed, the clanking of metal as it was set down.

“Do you think you can do it?” Tharya sounded quiet but hopeful, the kind of hope a child has asking their parents for candy even after they’ve been given a definitive no. A last attempt, a final, flailing resort.  
“I can deliver the swordstroke. But that is all I can do,” Miraak was trying to sound comforting, speaking softer and kinder than Veros had ever heard him, or any version of him, speak before. “The _ pankratosword _ sank Yokuda and gave millions a near instantaneous death. I can deliver the swordstroke. But if the Psijics have banned us from carrying out Quaranir’s plan...” When Veros rounded the corner Miraak was leaning down to kiss the woman who’d saved him from Apocrypha, large hands pressed to her back, intent on whispering some exclusive words that would maybe put them both at ease. It was odd and, Veros felt, unnerving to see him so...like _ this_. He murmured something against Tharya that made her shake her head with a reply waiting to be pressed back against his lips, but the masked Dunmer cleared her throat from the doorway. They parted like a wave slashed by a swimmer’s hand, eyes falling on Veros. Tharya flushed with embarrassment but Miraak didn’t seem phased; if anything, minutely annoyed.

“Sorry.” The elf said, shaking her head at herself. Why did she clear her throat? Obviously they had come here for the same reason she had: solace. Escape. No doubt she could’ve found a well-lighted room somewhere else in Ceporah Tower, why did she interfere? “Didn’t realize anyone else had discovered the forge here.”

“Oh, no worries,” Tharya laughed although it felt forced, and she was back to the friendly, funny Dragonborn who had no need to find comfort for her doubts. Veros realized from the dense feeling in the air that their conversation had not been finished, and there was more each of them wanted to say, but not in front of her.  
“_Ahtlahzey _ will use a forge wherever she can find one, whether she has express permission or not.” Miraak picked up his companion’s slack with a small chuckle, talking while lifting a shirt from the table and pulling it on over his head. She hadn’t even realized he’d been shirtless, but just before the white cloth was pulled down she caught a glimpse of a long, three-legged scar racing diagonally across his chest like an oversized claw mark.  
“Did you come here to read?” Tharya’s pale features were smeared with soot and sweat. “I can finish up and get out of your way.” There was a short blade in her hand attached to a slim wooden hilt. On the table behind her, Miraak’s staff lay bladeless.  
“Yes, but you’re fine,” Veros answered smoothly, “I don’t mind.” She looked around only to find that the singular chair was near the table Miraak was leaning against, his arms crossed and bright golden eyes fixed, unwavering, on _ her _.

“You came here later than the others,” he observed, his voice low and melodic, just like it had been when his counterpart had recited that hypnotizing mantra in her head, “why is that?” She didn’t answer for a long time. Like prey, her only thought was of how to avoid his piercing gaze, the flaring embers of his eyes burning through even her mask.  
“I was busy. Dealing with you in my timeline.” She thought that answer would make him angry but he only nodded and shared a look with Tharya.

“Tell me of him.” It was at that moment Veros realized he wasn’t trying to intimidate her, nor scare her off; he was being completely self-indulgent in this moment. He wanted to know only of his other self, wanted to learn as much as he could before this chance escaped him. So she obliged.

“He was an old man. Learned, but weakened, physically. He could not best me on equal footing, so he transformed into a dragon.” She tilted her head down and away from him, acutely aware Tharya was also listening as she pretended not to and polished the short blade. Veros wrapped her arms around herself. “In your world, she offered you peace, did she not?” She murmured. “...In mine, it was he who offered it to me. Since meeting the two of you, I have wondered many, many times if I made a mistake.”

Miraak let those words hang in the air between himself and the Dunmer for a long minute. _ Since meeting the two of you, I have wondered many, many times if I made a mistake_. His eyes traveled to Tharya and lingered on her before swinging back to the golden mask across the room.

“_Geh, _ she gave me peace.” _ In more ways than one. _ “You saw him, then? Did he...” he trailed off, hoping he wouldn’t have to act like an inquisitive schoolboy, but damning himself all the same; if he wanted to know, now was the time to ask. “What did he look like?” If he was old, then perhaps the effects of Apocrypha had not been the same. Hermaeus Mora had kept him frozen in time, never hungry, never unclean, never tired, and never aging. For nearly five thousand years, his body had been in the peak condition of his early thirties. "I would be interested to know how meeting _ ahtlahzey _ and myself has made you reflect."

"I never saw his face. But he was inside my head, every day, every night. He saw through my eyes, spoke to me. He lamented once, how he had been taken by Mora at so old, doomed to last forever in that state. He thought his return to Tamriel might allow him to reverse it." She paused, her voice trembling. "He still wanted to do dark, dark things. Bring Skyrim under his control. He offered to place me at his side though, and I wonder, if I had-" Veros broke off suddenly, as if finishing that thought would make it come true. "Maybe I-I could have done some..something..anything." Miraak watched her entire posture shift; even with the concealment of the mask, she spoke, much like Tharya and her eyes, more with her body than her words. His other self had...scared her. So much so, his terror was ingrained in her memory, burnt like a brand still crisp and tender from the flame. 

"And perhaps you could not have," he tried his best to sound comforting but wasn't sure if it worked. A distant grin touched his features, and he added, more to himself than Veros: "I am a stubborn bastard."

Veros glanced up, her golden mask tilting ever so slightly - amused, calculating, curious? "I suppose so," she said, but there is a certain lift to it, like the corner of her mouth might be twitching into a smile. For the first time she forced herself to meet his gold eyes, gold like melted coins, gold like gleaming dragon scales. They were surprisingly beautiful, and she shocked herself with that thought. They were stoic and intimidating but there was a weak kindness behind them, a kindness dwarfed by his conversation with her. Why, how? How was it his eyes remained so hard when the rest of him was softened? After a moment of consideration he extended his hand to the masked Dunmer. 

"I do not believe I need to apologize for his actions. In time you will be able to forget him, as the world had forgotten me, and the others who share my name. But I...sympathize with any harm he may have caused." Not an apology, but close enough to one he didn't come across as unfeeling.

Gently, Veros took his hand. 

"Thank you," she said in a tone more soft than he's ever heard from her, grasping his hand firmly, but then she backed up, indecision written into every angle of her body, before making a quick exit. 

The moment she fled through the doorway Quaranir appeared in it, sweeping to the side to allow the Dunmer by with a confused look. He watched her leave before aiming his attention at the two Dragonborns remaining, grimacing at Tharya’s dirtied hands.  
“Clean yourselves up. We have work to do.”

* * *

The common room seemed to be filled and sucked dry of all the oxygen when they got there just under an hour later. Tharya grimaced and muttered something about _ being the last ones to every flat meeting_, and Miraak would’ve laughed if not for the fixed, fearful gaze Dukaan had locked him in since stepping foot past the threshold. He began to realize that everyone was staring at him, all the Priests, both Daedras—when had Sanguine returned to them?—all the Dragonborns, the ex-Thalmor. Quaranir was the only one who seemed unable to hold his gaze. Unconsciously he took Tharya’s hand, hoping the comfort, however small, of her fingers curled up while his palm encased them would ease the frayed nerve ends in his shoulders.

It didn’t.

“Throne-Breaker. First Mage.” Quaranir folded his hands into his robes and bowed to them as one. “Thank you for coming-”  
“Cut the crap. We can all see this is no garden party,” Tharya, ever the diplomatic speaker, took a step forward and her arm stretched back to keep their hands linked. “What’s going on? You all look like you’re about to do something treasonous.” Quaranir hesitated and in that very moment, the absence of sound except for the Psijic’s inhale, Miraak knew exactly what was happening.  
“We are going through with the original plan,” it was now they both noticed Rumaea was missing, “to use the _ pankratosword _to free Hermaeus Mora.” Even though he had figured it out mere seconds ago, Miraak felt his eyebrows raise.

“_Hi dein daar, Paiðir? _ ” The question was aimed at Morokei, who only sighed and bowed his head.  
“There have been worse rebellions over lesser causes, _ dii kul_.”

“We need a _ shehai _ to administer the _ pankratosword_.” Miraak now addressed the whole group, but his gaze was fixed on Quaranir. “And I do not think any of you are sword-singers.”  
“You are of the same stock as the sword-singers,” the Altmer replied, “both in your blood, through your magical and physical ability. It can only be assumed that you are a natural choice to carry out the task.”

“_Geh_,” Miraak said slowly, “it can only be assumed.”

There it was again; that tense silence, the uncomfortable lack of noise, lack of life settling over everyone’s shoulders. They all looked as if they knew something he did not, and it was plausible; Quaranir could easily have told them what the manifestation of a _ shehai _ would entail beforehand, but he was not telling him now. No, it was Vahlok who finally spoke up, shooting all the other Priests a look as if they should’ve been first to do so.  
“You do not have time to conjure the _ shehai _ by yourself, brother.” He sounded almost doleful. “But there are...various mages with empathetic talent in this room. We—the Psijic believes we can use them to draw it out of you. A _ shehai _ is-”  
“An ethereal blade. An extension of one’s soul, I know, _ zeymah_. You need not teach me.”

“We will start with Throne-Breaker only, though her empathetic talent is...” Quaranir struggled for the correct words, “...of a lower ability than Cara’s, she knows you best. You two are, for lack of a better term-”

“Don’t say soulmates.”

“-soulmates.”

“Ah, damn, I knew it.” Tharya shook her head. Quaranir narrowed his eyes at her.

“I do not mean it in the sense you are star-crossed lovers. I mean it in the sense that your souls, whether you know it or not, _ are _ connected by a force stronger than anything else in the universe.”

Tharya groaned. “Don’t say love.”

The Psijic’s jaw clenched.

“Destiny, Throne-Breaker. You are bound to each other by destiny.”  
“The Prophecy of the Dragonborn, _ dii kul_,” the talking came from Morokei now, “it was written the very same year you were born.” Tharya was struck silent for a moment before she looked up at him, and all he could see in her eyes was curiosity and confusion.  
“Was it really?”  
“_Geh_,” he replied softly, “I...I read it in the Grand Vault of Morne.” Suddenly the memory came flooding back to him, the memories Vatus Pætrio and Althëa had granted in his dream, the memories he had lost and forgotten thousands of years ago were now crisp and fresh in his mind, like it had been just last night.

_ Miraak looked down at the tightly rolled scroll clasped in his hand, running his gloved fingers gently over the delicate paper. How many times had he come down here just to hold this scroll as he did now? How many times had he denied himself the indulgence of this room, only to succumb to this...calling? _

_ “What do you want from me?” He said aloud, disturbing the silence and dimness of the vault below the cathedral. With something akin to a lover’s touch he unrolled the prophecy to find the Oracle’s neat and precise handwriting. But it was more than that. The Last Dragonborn. His eyes lingered on those words—what did Dragonborn mean? And if there was to be a last, where was the first? Was it possible this First Dragonborn had not yet been born? There was no mention of it in the prophecy. How would the Last Dragonborn be of import? _

_ The questions swirled in his head like a summer typhoon, sweeping up any other subject of thought he could have and dispensing of it immediately. In this moment, all he could wonder about was this paper, and this Last Dragonborn. But still the answers were unclear to him, shrouded in mystery, shrouded in the uncertainty of the future; for as far as he knew, no one calling themselves Dragonborn had ever emerged in the history of the world. Indeed, the Atmorans seemed to be the only race that worshiped the dragons, so it stood to reason that this Dragonborn could only come from Atmora. Yokuda would never produce such a title, nor the Aldmer. So this entity could not be of the past, and that left only the future. _

_ “You are perhaps thousands of years away and yet you will not leave me alone.” Miraak narrowed his eyes and rolled the paper up again, closing his fist around it. “But I will find you, some day.” _

For a moment all he could do was marvel and wonder at the fact that so, so many years ago he had known of her, had known of her existence even though it was yet to come. He had _ held _ her in the palm of his hand too many times to count, cursing the strange and consuming bond he had to this simple piece of paper. Thousands of years ago, when Morne stood and Atmora had not been tainted by the Unending Winter, he had held the Last Dragonborn for the first time. So Akatosh was right: the moment Miraak had been put on Nirn, Tharya had been born, completed, guaranteed nearly five thousand years later to emerge. They were...tied. Their existences...reliant upon one another.

“I cannot promise that the process of extracting your _ shehai _ will be painless. It has never been done successfully before.” _ Successfully_. If the Ansei, the Hiradirge, and the great sword-singers of Yokuda could not do it, what made Quaranir think a Nord with a scrap of her mother’s hand-me-down empathetic magic could? Or an untrained elf? “But it is our only hope. _ You _ are our only hope.”  
“That doesn’t mean we don’t have a choice,” Tharya butt in, “if it’s never been done _ successfully _ before than our chances of killing him outweigh the chances of making it work.” Ahzidal rolled his eyes across the ceiling.  
“I told you such gross affection would obstruct your plans, did I not?” He scoffed, shaking his head. Tharya sent him a vicious glare.  
“Well, such _ gross affection _ is what keeps General Beefcake over here alive most of the time. He would’ve been eaten by vampires months ago and then we wouldn’t be gathered here in this room discussing elaborate ways to kill him.” Ahzidal stared at her, his jaw slack. “I won’t do anything without his express permission.” 

“And so you will have it.” Miraak said. All eyes swiveled back to him, including Tharya’s, alight with concern and hints of anger, but he didn’t give her anything else. They needed to do this, no matter how much she hated it. No matter how much he hated it. “You have it. Continue.”

Quaranir went about instructing her how exactly this would happen, how she was to tap into his soul, the core of his being. He didn’t listen, instead focusing on calming every part of him he could. It was intimate magic, he knew; he had performed spells and rites similar. Drawing upon one’s soul was no easy business, and not something for an audience.  
“Your necklaces, First Mage.” Miraak opened his eyes without realizing he had closed them, looking first to Quaranir’s outstretched hand. Gold fingers twitched. “They are totems attached to the souls of other beings. They will interfere.” Slowly and methodically he removed them, letting them rest together on the Psijic’s palm and watching the pendant and phial disappear under his digits. And then he tuned the rest of them out, even as a bout of whispering chatter rose. Zahkriisos said something he did not care to hear, and not a minute later Tharya’s cool palms flattened to his chest with some fingers slipping below the neckline of his robes.

_ I do like your hands on me_. He felt his lips pull into a grin. 

** _Ysmir’s beard, shut up. This isn’t the place for sex jokes, General Chucklefuck_**. She bit back in reply, her taut voice echoing in his head. 

_ Well, which is it? Beefcake or Chucklefuck? _

** _Both. Now stop it, I’m trying to concentrate on that cold cavity in your chest where your soul should be you bastard._ ** Without opening his eyes he clasped both hands around her wrists, positioning them closer to the edges of his pectorals. ** _I wish everyone wasn’t watching._ **

_ I know,_ he replied, sincere this time, _ but pay them no mind. Do not feel embarrassed. _

She didn’t say anything back. After a moment he began to feel the same feeling he had many weeks ago at the College, when she had first laid her hands on his chest like this, when she had first read through his scars and seen his past. He had denied it then, despised it, felt shame rise in his stomach, but now he did not. It would never cease to irk him, this uncanny talent of hers. But for now he had to let it in. 

Tharya did not know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t...this. He felt...open. Unguarded. Effortlessly, countless times before he had done exactly this, merged their magicks, connected their souls. Why was it she had never done it to him? Was she unable to? Was it simply because he was the greater magical force? Or was it because he could slip by her fortifications—did she have any? It was exhilarating and calming all at once to feel _ him _ beneath her fingertips, _ him _ like back at the College but amplified. Expanded on a thousand times over. This time she felt her magic push into him, not the other way around, and she felt him accept it like a jug accepts water to fill it. But there was something—something blocking the water at least partially. Something was diverting the flow so only a weak trickle found the jug. And there, cloaked in dragonfire, in blood, in agony and torn flesh, she found it. Tharya took a stumbling step back, gasping like a drowning woman reaching for the surface.

“His scars,” she said finally, and Miraak’s eyes flickered open. “Your scars, big man. I can’t read past them.”

“_Geh, hi vis. _ Try again.”

Quaranir shook his head and uncrossed his arms. “If she is not strong enough, she is not strong enough. Cara, if you please-”  
“_Nid. _ You can do it, _ ahtlahzey_.” He took her palms and planted them firmly on his chest. “You do not need the scars. You have already read them. Move beyond what you already know. Move beyond the flesh you are accustomed to.” Her face flushed and the Nord gave Cara an apologetic look, but the other woman shook her head.  
“I’ll be here if you need help,” she promised, smiling lightly. Tharya nodded. Miraak nodded once before closing his eyes again, and she followed suite. _ Move beyond what you already know. Move beyond the flesh you are accustomed to. _ There is more to man than just flesh. There is feeling. There is _ soul_. _ Move beyond the flesh you are accustomed to. Disregard the skin you know as Miraak. Find instead the ethereal, immortal core of the man’s spirit. _ This time it was a little easier to find the jug, a little easier to find water to fill it with. The flow was strong, steady, never once wavering. She felt power and magic envelop her wrists, poke like needles from her fingertips into Miraak. He jerked a little under her touch, and she became aware of his heartbeat. No, not his heartbeat. The thrumming of his soul. The gentle, alluring hum of his inner self. 

It was much like him but she supposed that was to be expected. It was _ his _ soul. Despite that, she didn’t think it would feel as warm and welcoming as it did, as loving and willing to accept her intrusive magic. She was almost lost in the feeling; was this what it felt like to interact directly with someone’s very center of being? It was...fantastical. Romantic. Shocking. It felt as if the Miraak she had never seen but had always known existed was welcoming her home. The compassionate, gentle, confident Miraak who so rarely showed his face, if at all. Yes, she had him. It made her wonder: what was her soul like? Had Miraak ever gone this deep? She could wade forever in the arms of this magical paradise, where everything felt easy, taken care of, in order. 

But no. She had to pull.

And she did. Slowly, at first. It was like picking flowers in an endless meadow, finding all the ones you want and then seeing more and picking those too. She tore the shreds of tender, indulgent, amorous Miraak off the wall of his insides like ripping paintings or tapestries from their hooks. She broke the glass of devoted Miraak and took the shattered pieces in her arms, adding it to the growing arsenal. She stole the mist from waterfalls of self-reliant and trustworthy and intuitive Miraak, and the calmness of his soul had turned into calamity. The tranquility was replaced by anger, familiar anger, familiar arrogance and familiar stoicism.

A choked gurgle alarmed her back to the waking world, tearing her and all her treasures from the inner depths of the First Dragonborn’s soul, dragging amorous and kind and confident Miraak out with her. When Tharya opened her eyes his golden eyes were fixed on hers, his fingers tight and unyielding on her wrists. There was blood on his lips and he coughed a rattly wet cough when she saw it: a wispy white ethereal blade, or at least the hilt of a blade, sticking out from the center of his chest. She was unsure if he was trying to pry her hands away or keep them there.  
“What the hell, Quaranir, he’s choking!”

“He is not choking.”

“_There’s a sword in his chest! _” Tharya yelled, struggling to keep her hands on the wheezing Yokudan’s torso. He began grasping at the ethereal white hilt sticking out of the dip between his pectorals, but every time his fingers brushed it they went straight through. Like it was nothing more than fog. Ayera and the others, all of them, watched as the First Dragonborn tried to form words through blood-stained lips, gurgling and coughing violently around the magic blade. His face was turning both grey and purple—he was dying and choking, though which would kill him first was a mystery.

“There is no sword, Throne-Breaker. He has to release himself completely to pull it out-“

“This is bullshit!”

“Then take your hands away,” the Psijic gestured vaguely, “and the only hope of sealing this Break dies.”

Tharya looked at him with wild eyes, her brow set in anger.

“Are you telling me he dies if I step away?”

“Yes.” Tharya felt uncertainty flood her veins like a summer storm floods the rivers. It wasn’t a physical blade, but it was obviously treating the soft, weak flesh of his body and organs as if it were. He was dying, stabbed, choking on his own blood, but she could not. Let. Go.

Was she going to kill him?

“Keep going, Throne-Breaker!” Quaranir shouted. She felt as if he was egging her on, pushing Miraak to his inevitable demise and he was the cheerleader. “Find him again!” Against all her intuition she returned to that blazing light, that fragile center, desperately scraping the sides for more. _ More _. She was enveloped in it yet she could still here Miraak’s desperate, choked off sounds, his pathetic groans and slick gurgles that made her stomach churn. He blew blood from his lips like one blows water. An alarmed burble brought their attention back to Miraak, who swallowed uncertainly and hit the butt of one palm against the hilt.

“What the...”

“How is that possible?” Veros gaped from behind her mask. “Just seconds ago it was air.”

Miraak wrapped both hands around the hilt and with a wretched, agonized look on his face, began to pull it out inch by painful inch.

“Good.” Quaranir nodded once. “His _ shehai _ has completely manifested. Now all that remains is to extract it.” The Yokudan made some kind of sound that was both frustrated and pained as he clasped both palms on the blade now. Deep cuts appeared in his hands and blood dribbled down to his elbows and onto the floor. Out of her peripheral vision she saw Vahlok lurch forward as if he could slay whatever beast was plaguing his brother, but Morokei pulled him back with a steady arm. Miraak was trembling, shaking, veins jumping against his neck as he neared the end of the blade, and finally the tip exited his body and he held it for just a brief moment in his hands before collapsing forward with blood in his mouth.

The real world seemed to return to her piece by piece. First the light and then the sound, and the unsteady, shallow breaths as Miraak toppled forward like a tower broken from its base. Gods, she didn’t have the strength to hold him. Gods, she couldn’t catch him. She reached for him anyway, her hands seeming to connect with him in slow motion, his legs giving out even slower. They fell together and she was aware of his blood soaking into her shirt, her skin as she held him close. But he was not bleeding from his chest; no, he was unscathed there. As if the _ shehai_, now secured in his left hand, had never existed. 

“Shh. Let me take him,” Dukaan insisted and before Tharya could respond he was taking Miraak from her trembling arms, scooping his limbs around the limp Priest and holding him like an infant. She felt a pang of jealousy at the relative ease with which the entire thing played out—but it was baseless, empty jealousy, fueled only by her want to be Miraak’s protector and seeing someone else fulfill the role. She couldn’t carry him, not like that one night on Solstheim, thriving off pure adrenaline and a feral need to _ survive _. She couldn’t carry him. But Dukaan looked at him with such tenderness, held him so close...she wondered if that jealousy was baseless after all.

Cara and Erador were at her sides immediately after Miraak had been removed, grabbing her arms and helping her to her feet. There was a sofa in the common room and that’s where Dukaan laid the unconscious Dragonborn. Together, they watched as his dark fingers uncurled and the _ shehai _ flitted from his grasp, falling to the floor with the gravity of a metal sword and exploding into a puff of white smoke upon impact. Quaranir did not speak for a long, long time. He watched Miraak breathe for eternal minutes before nodding once to himself and nodding again to no one.

  
“Well.” Was all he said. “We are now one step closer to sealing the Break.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi dein daar, Paiðir? - literally "you keep this, father?" but could be inferred as "you condone this?"  
dii kul - my son  
geh - yes  
zeymah - brother  
geh, hi vis - yes, you can  
nid - no


	27. Caro, Mio Ben

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the squad prepares to face Apocrypha - most of them for a second time - as Quaranir and Rumaea keep the plan moving. the thalmor have one last card to play in the form of a second psijic informant.
> 
> one of the last chapters, yay!

The ghosting touch of Morokei’s fingers lingered on the lines of his face, the clamp of Dukaan’s hand around his own still haunted his fingers. It was hard to believe he’d survived the whole ordeal; he remembered Tharya’s wrecking run through his soul, her magic pulling and tugging on parts of him he had yet to rediscover. He felt as if he’d been asleep for days, but it was only night when he awoke. The first thing he’d done after forcing himself away from Morokei’s soothing hair-stroking was walk to the beach. Nature was not always his friend, but the air was fresh and the sea breeze...reminded him of home.

Dukaan joined him when the moon was high and he had kicked off his boots, holding them in one hand and rolling up the bottom of his pants to feel the water circle his ankles. As much as nature was not his ally, most of the time, he loved the sea. Adored it, even. He was content with the water on him, the sludgy wet sand under his toes.  
“I am glad to see you are doing well, _ mal zeymah_,” the approaching Priest smiled at him in the moonlight. “I was...worried for you. _ Ahtlahzey _ has never treated you poorly, but she is untrained, her empathetic ability raw, I...worried she would inflict undue harm.” Dukaan’s brown eyes shifted to the moon and then to Miraak’s chest as if he could see the bright orb of his soul lying there. But Miraak only smiled, the wind pushing his hair into his eyes.  
“_Dii fil_..._ahtlahzey_.” Good gods, was it even the mere mention of her that made him putty? Dukaan felt a stinging jealousy rise in his gut. But who was he to be jealous? He, who had shown up four thousand years later expecting Miraak to suddenly understand his ancient feelings? “She is untrained yes, but it would’ve been difficult for her to hurt me.”  
“You think she is incapable?”  
“_Nid. _ She would know,” now those golden eyes were confused, turning on him in a new way. “She would feel it. We are connected-”  
“Soulmates,” he snipped, “I heard.”

Miraak made a face before gesturing to the open expanse of beach. Could he brush it off, just like that?  
“Walk with me?” There was an innocence to his request that Dukaan wasn’t sure he deserved. A glimmer of old Miraak; he wanted to walk together to diffuse what could possibly become a tense conversation that neither of them wanted. He wanted to walk to ease Dukaan’s nerves. 

Together they wandered to where the crashing waves bubbled down to little gurgles of water and met the sand, only to retreat back into the sea again. Miraak was silent for a long time, looking out into the night and over the dark water, at the moons and Mnemoli hovering in the sky. Lying in wait. Tomorrow, the day after, next week, who would remain? The moons or Mnemoli? 

“Do you remember the palm reader we went to in Morne?” Dukaan laughed suddenly. Miraak grinned and turned away from the sea, lifting both hands to examine them.

“All too well.”

“She said your life lines were long and deep, and that you’d be blessed with longevity.” 

“Gods,” the First Dragonborn shook his head, and then looked at Dukaan with a devilish smile. “How right she was.” They laughed together and for a split moment Dukaan felt he was back on the beach in Atmora, the sand wet and cool beneath their toes, the moons high and full. The water latched around their ankles before retreating again. “This place reminds me of Bordahven.” The Dragonborn said quietly, more to the night than himself or Dukaan. _ Bordahven_. He hadn’t heard the little village’s name spoken much on the Yokudan’s lips, but each time it was, it was layered in a forlorn yearning to return.  
“Do you miss it still?” Dukaan asked.  
“_Geh_. In a new way, now that the country is frozen and gone. Sometimes I wonder if the beach there is still untouched. I miss it in a different sense than I miss Atmora.”

“Well, we are all homesick with you, _ mal zeymah_, if there is any consolation in that.” He knew there wasn’t, but he clapped a hand on Miraak’s back all the same and let it linger there as they walked. 

There were very few words passed between them after that. Dukaan mulled over his tumultuous inner emotions between bouts of staring wistfully at Miraak’s dark hair, his angular and proud, northern features, his dark skin, the line of his neck...but the Yokudan was looking forever at the sea, never once turning from it as if he expected a fleet or a kraken to break the waves on the twilight horizon.  
“Do krakens exist anymore?” He wondered aloud.  
“No, unfortunately.” Miraak hummed. “They went extinct early in the Second Era.”

“Ah.” The wind picked up for a minute, pulling at their robes before scuttling away and receding back into the ground. That breeze was oddly bitter, cold, making gooseflesh of Dukaan’s skin, sending a shudder to attack his spine. Suddenly the world seemed...dim. The moon had lost its vibrancy, the waves had lost their quiet whisper and the night its mysterious extravagance. A cloth had been thrown over his eyes, but just as quickly as it was thrown, it was taken away.

“Did you feel that?” He asked quietly. Miraak looked around and shook his head.

“Nature does not often speak as clearly to me as to you,” he said. Dukaan felt the hair on his arms stand straight, a dreadful pit anchoring itself deep in his gut. He felt cold and clammy and then hot and then it all washed away, until he was left with nothing. Nothing but numbness—numbness everywhere. It didn’t even feel like his heart was beating.

Today, then. He looked into Miraak’s young eyes with a lonesome longing, wishing for once that the affection and care he knew was deposited in this man’s veins had once been turned on him before the end. That the warm embrace of his arms and the secretively gentle curve of his smile had been gifted, once, to him before the end. Today, he could feel it. The clock had struck midnight and a new day had begun.

Today was the day he would die.

* * *

“Where have you been?”  
“Evading the guards,” Quaranir snipped, “and trying to save the world.”  
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,” Rumaea huffed, wrapping her golden fingers around the crusty iron bars. They were thrumming with magic, making what seemed to be a helpless, run-of-the-mill jail cell an impenetrable fortress of a room. “Did you get the big Redguard to comply?”  
“I did. He has his _ shehai_. I will send them all to Apocrypha after breakfast.” Quaranir glanced to the single barred window that let the first shreds of dawn filter into the dungeon. “Are the details of your task clear to you?”  
“Yes, yes. I know.” Rumaea shouldered her way out of the open door as he jiggled the keys in the lock and wrenched them out. “Convince the Thalmor to attack with all they have, but only after the others have returned from Apocrypha.”  
“Yes. We need enough time to-”  
“Create a battle plan, I know. How am I supposed to know when that is?”  
Quaranir looked at her with a wild look in his grassy eyes, his entire body still for a moment. Thinking. “You will know. Watch the sky.”

Without another word he spread his palms and moved them in a circle over one another, one swooping low and to the left while the other moved high and to the right. The air shimmered before a dark portal materialized before them, surface undulating like blackened water.  
“What about the others, Quaranir?”  
“What others?”  
“The other Psijics. The ones who agreed to help you?” The man blanched for a moment. Had he forgotten about them? “You’ll all be expelled, no doubt, when this is all over. Banned from Artaeum.” He obviously hadn’t thought about that before giving the Yokudan his _ shehai_. Banned from Artaeum, kicked out of the Psijic Order...it was near impossible to think of, and yet, he knew it to be true. There was no future for him here after he defied direct orders from the Council of Artaeum itself.  
“Yes, I suppose we will.” He was still and silent for a beat longer before ushering her towards the portal. “Go. First it was his, but now it is your turn to help save the world.”  
“How dramatic.”

“Watch the skies,” he pushed her cell door shut and locked it again, pocketing the keys. Rumaea moved towards the portal and nodded at him once over her shoulder. “Watch the skies.”  
  
She stepped into the portal and disappeared.

* * *

Breakfast was simple: buttered toast, seasoned eggs, fresh fruit, steaming tea. For some reason there was no appetite in her stomach, only a pit. She couldn’t tell what it was that formed this pit yet, but someone at this table was...off. Someone was feeling intense emotion. Or was it just remnants of the soul-searching endeavor from earlier? The magic then had been powerful, the empathetic force almost enough to make her go unconscious.  
“Are you alright, _ dii kest? _ ” Miraak asked quietly, leaning down to her ear as he claimed the last of the eggs for his plate. “You haven’t eaten.”  
“I’m alright,” Cara assured him, “I’m just not hungry.” She gave her plate a gentle push away and cleared her throat, surveying the table. Everyone was here, including Quaranir who had walked in just a few minutes ago. Tharya and Miraak seemed to be doing just fine. Erador was yawning into his tea and Ayera was telling some story with animated use of her hands. Jyggalag wasn’t eating but Sanguine was, despite the fact he didn’t need to. And Dukaan...

As she focused in, she realized_ he _ was the source of all this turmoil. 

“Everyone,” Quaranir stood suddenly, “your attention please.” All chatter ceased easily, maybe too easily, and every pair of eyes swiveled to the Psijic. He looked like a doe caught in the crosshair for a moment, as if he’d forgotten he’d called for everyone’s attention before clearing his throat. “Today is the day we...set our plan into action.” Tharya was first to speak up, cutting Quaranir off just before he could continue.  
“You’re sending us to Apocrypha, you mean.” Her voice was unnaturally hard and flat.  
“_I _ am not forcing you anywhere,” Quaranir narrowed his eyes on the Nord, “you would remember that it is your _ partner _ who agreed to go through with this.”  
“And it’s **your** plan.”

“Arguing only delays the inevitable,” Jyggalag rumbled from the foot of the table, “stop your squabbling so we may proceed and be done with it.”

Quaranir pressed his hands like irons to his robes before nodding to the ex-Daedra and looking at everyone seated around the table in turn. They were all watching him expectantly, the Dragonborns of four separate timelines joined here at one meal. One sitting. He didn’t think his life would be an exciting one, and perhaps he had joined the Psijic Order to amend that. Tharya was an interesting enough test subject but even she had grown boring to watch over the years. This...this was something. This would be his crowning moment or his downfall, and he still did not know which would be waiting for him at the end of this massive, confusing tunnel.

“I will open a portal to Apocrypha so you may pass safely through, but you will need to move quickly. I cannot keep the portal open at the risk of being discovered,” the Altmer pressed his fingertips to the tabletop, “so I ask that you open one last Oblivion Gate from the inside.” Looking reluctantly to Tharya, he watched her trace the rim of her stein before raising one eyebrow.  
“A _ last _Oblivion Gate?” She echoed.

Quaranir nodded. “Yes. I...voiced some concerns about your ease of access to and with them. Oblivion Gates are highly unstable portals, not like the ones we of the Psijic Order use. It is possible other Princes or even other magical forces may...intercept them. I have asked Sanguine to retract his gift.” A dense silence settled over the room. Gods damn these Dragonborns; it felt like always Quaranir was forced to have private conversations with one of them in front of a whole room of them. The Yokudan beside Tharya looked decidedly unamused but one dark eyebrow was raised challengingly, his stoic golden eyes sliding from the Prince of Debauchery to his lover and up to the Altmer. “There will not be much time to spare once you return. I have asked Rumaea to gather the Thalmor forces and bring them here on my command.” Erador muttered something to himself a few seats down but Quaranir couldn’t hear. “I have also taken the liberty of contacting some...reinforcements from each of your respective timelines.”  
“Like who?”  
“You will know soon enough. Sanguine and Jyggalag will remain here,” by the looks on their faces it seemed that even the Daedra didn’t know about this part of the plan, “to help with preparations.” He ignored the roll of Tharya’s eyes. “Please enjoy your meal, Dragonborns. It may be the last one you share here.”

* * *

Apocrypha stole his senses first.

The humid, lukewarm air washed over his body like a muggy, damp cloth; the scent of must, mold, rotting books and dry ink lingered painfully sharp in his nose; the place was silent, dreadfully silent; a tart stench hit the roof of his mouth when he inhaled. But when he opened his eyes, it hadn’t changed since he left.  
“It’s quiet,” his counterpart observed from his side, and Miraak nodded.  
“Elenwen’s doing, if she has truly locked Mora away.” He took the first step forward into Apocrypha; this was not the summit, but one of the lower, much more expansive tiers of the realm.  
“Where are the Seekers?” The blond wondered aloud, and Miraak realized he had a point: there were no Seekers or Lurkers in sight. The tar pools seemed completely still, a black, oily film having settled over the top of the ponds. He drew close to one to test it, but no tentacle lashed out from below the surface. Even the acid green skies seemed to have stopped swirling and undulating, frozen still above them.  
“Does it matter where the Seekers are?” Tharya called from the back. “Can’t we just get a move on?” Miraak half-twisted to look at her over his shoulder, but she didn’t meet his gaze. She fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot, eyes darting around the realm of Oblivion like it would come alive at any moment. He couldn’t blame her; he felt the same, the muscles in his back taut, the hair on the nape of his neck rigid and every breath seemingly smothered in his chest. 

_ Come walk with me_, he murmured into her mind, and that forced her gaze to snap up to him. _ Apocrypha is dead. Nothing will hurt you. _

** _Us_****, ** she said meekly, ** _I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about us._ ** Nevertheless she wound her way up to the front as they began to move and latched her white knuckled fingers around his wrist. Gods damn whoever saw, he didn’t care. They would make it through this. He knew they would.

They had to.

As a group they moved slowly, all of them on edge for different reasons. Finally they surmised Hermaeus Mora was not on this level of Apocrypha and began to look for a way out.  
“So how do we get to where he is?” Erador asked.  
“There’s a Black Book on every tier that takes you to a different spot in Apocrypha,” Cara replied, “so if we find the Black Book that leads us somewhere else, we can keep searching.”  
“A Book in every spot?” Dukaan echoed, making a slow circle where he stood. “There must be...hundreds.”  
“Thousands, perhaps.” Veros’s masked eyes traveled around Oblivion before fixing straight ahead again. “So we shouldn’t waste time.” The Dunmer strode to the front and clambered up the steps nearby. Ayera and Erador followed quickly, then Tharya and Miraak. They rounded the corner and vanished into one of the tube-like tunnels.

  
“_Dii kest? _” When Cara looked up from rubbing her temples concerned blue eyes were watching her. “Your head?”

The elf waved him off. “It’s nothing.”  
“No, _ dii kest_, tell me,” he said gently, taking her hands. “Something is bothering you.”  
“It’s just...you and I, everyone really...everyone is so on edge. Everyone hates it here. That’s all I can feel, is everyone being tense.” She winced a little, as if giving words to the feeling made it even harder to bare. “You, me, _ him... _ we all almost died here. And Veros, she’s...I don’t know, I think she’s scared. Tharya too, but she’s...” Cara’s eyes turned on the tunnel at the top of the steps. “Angry. I don’t think Ayera and Erador have even met their Miraak, let alone been to Apocrypha before.” Miraak squeezed her hands gently and watched her for a moment longer before sighing.  
“Well, let’s hope we are done here soon.”  
Cara smiled weakly. “Let’s hope.”

* * *

Elenwen stared at Rumaea from her bed, her throat drier than the Alik’r in summer, her body aching everywhere. She refused to acknowledge the peeling of her skin or the unsettling noises coming from her stomach. Ondolemar had told her she looked like a skeleton wearing a suit of loose flesh, and she’d kicked him out.  
“Are you sick, First Emissary?” Rumaea asked innocently from the foot of her bed, closer than anyone had dared to get all day. “Perhaps I could mix a-”  
“You know I am not sick, hag,” Elenwen spit, each word strained and hoarse. The Psijic looked surprised but concealed it just as quickly. “This is your doing.”  
“My doing?” She echoed. “First Emissary-”  
“The blood ritual. You knew this would happen. Did you sabotage-” a rattling cough interrupted her words, pushing its way from her sunken chest and clawing from her throat, “did you sabotage my ritual?”

Rumaea clicked her tongue softly and shook her head.  
“No, of course not, First Emissary. You enlisted me to help you kill the First Dragonborn, and you insisted on using blood magic as a means to that end.” She circled the bed and perched near Elenwen’s blanketed feet. “Perhaps you should’ve studied the cost of binding a Daedric Prince with your blood.”  
“What,” the word came out as a dry whisper, so she cleared her throat and tried again, “what are you saying?”  
“Blood magic is the strongest kind of magic there is, First Emissary.” Now the Dunmer’s voice was lecturing. That stupid bitch, Elenwen would have her head for all this. “In binding Hermaeus Mora, you bound him to your soul. It seems thirty mages was not strong enough to cage him, and since he is so much stronger than you anticipated, the bond you have with him is slowly killing you. Destroying your body so he may be free once you are dead.” She tilted her head. “That _ is _ how blood magic works, after all.”  
“Don’t get cocky, little girl.” Elenwen growled. “Where have you been?” She already knew the answer in her bones. The Psijic had returned to Artaeum, even if Ondolemar disagreed. Where else would she go? She had to have gone to Artaeum, to double cross the Thalmor no doubt.  
“Artaeum,” Rumaea confirmed, “Ceporah Tower.”  
“For what purpose, you wretch?”  
“I happen to know that the Psijic Order has denied the Dragonborn’s request for help,” she said slowly, “I disguised myself upon my return and found Quaranir, the one who-”  
“I know who he is,” Elenwen groaned.

“Yes, of course. He has sent the Dragonborns to Apocrypha to free Hermaeus Mora. You should begin gathering your soldiers, First Emissary; when they return will be the time to strike.”  
A thinning eyebrow went up, making the creases in the Altmer’s forehead all the more visible. “And when will that be?”  
“Impossible to tell.” The girl shrugged lightly. “It is said Time moves strangely in the realms of Oblivion. I had planned to return to Artaeum and send up a signal when that time comes.” Elenwen looked deep into the Dunmer’s red eyes, stoic and unmoving. She was lying. Gods damn it all, she was lying straight through her teeth. How stupid did she think the _ First Emissary _ was?

  
“Very well. What signal shall we watch for?” Rumaea stood from the bed and clasped her hands behind her back, deep in fake thought. Yes, what signal indeed? After a moment she wandered to the foot of the mattress and swiveled on her heel.  
“Watch the skies.” She said simply.  
“_Watch the skies? _ That’s all?” The bedridden Altmer echoed in disbelief.  
“Yes. Watch the skies.” Elenwen had had enough. Enough of these games, of this stupid little Psijic girl who was nothing but an infant trying to parade as a grownup. She would get what she was due, oh yes. She would get her _ reward _ soon enough.  
“Very well,” the ambassador repeated, “you’re dismissed.” Rumaea bowed and as she went to turn, crumpled to the floor with a shocked yelp.

  
Elenwen watched her body drop to the stone, limp as a ragdoll. Her eyes traveled up to the second Psijic standing just behind her, a dagger in one hand with the hilt facing out.  
“Can you confirm all she has said?”  
“I know the Dragonborns left this morning for Apocrypha. It is likely they will be there for most of the day. And it is true the Psijics have denied a request for help; it is likely they will not get involved to any extent. Today, now, is the time to attack Artaeum, m’lady. Gather your forces on the island so you will be ready the moment the Dragonborns return.” Elenwen nodded slowly at the Bosmer, letting her words sink in. The Psijics would close their doors and leave that half-wit Nord and the Atmoran in the cold, open for attack. Their mortality was sweet in her mouth; for so long the Last Dragonborn had thwarted Thalmor plans, changed the course of history to her liking, interfered in things beyond her level of reasoning. No longer.

“Have Ondolemar make preparations. We march.” Invigorated even in her decaying state, Elenwen pushed herself up and forced her legs out of bed. The Bosmer looked down to Rumaea, lying at her feet.  
“Shall I take her to the dungeons, First Emissary?”  
Elenwen coughed and waved one hand, nodding. “Yes, thank you, Arelda. Excellent work.”

* * *

“How much longer are we going to wait?”

The question had been asked before by the same person, but in a private conversation. Now it was asked aloud, pushed into the silence like a blade pushed into cold butter. Tharya didn’t turn but Veros did, the stoic face of her mask silencing whoever had spoken. Or so they thought.  
“I know this is...a delicate matter, but we don’t have a lot of time. Mnemoli gets bigger every day, and the Thalmor will probably attack sooner rather than later-”  
“Erador, shush.” Ayera whispered, grabbing the ebony-haired elf’s arm. “We’re almost done here.” She said it but truthfully she didn’t know, none of them did. Tharya’s eyes had been fixed on Miraak for however long he had been sitting there, cross legged, his staff across his lap and his hands placed together with thumbs touching. Meditating just in front of where Hermaeus Mora lay dormant, pressed in by thirty liquid bars of red blood. All those blinking goat eyes were shut, all those writhing slimy tentacles gone; Mora was nothing but a hovering black mass of misty plasma. “We _ are _almost done here, right?” Ayera asked aloud, but got no answer.

After sharing a look with Veros, Tharya clenched her jaw and began walking to where Miraak was sitting, his counterpart and Cara a safe distance to his right, Dukaan on his left, all staring up at Hermaeus Mora like an animal in the zoo. Just as she got close the Yokudan stood and Dukaan jolted to life, swooping to his side.  
“_Ahtlahzey_,” golden eyes turned on her, “open a Gate as far away as you can.”

This earned everyone’s attention—they stood as the Nord passed them again to draw her symbol on the very edge of Apocrypha. As she went by, a wave of bitterness and anger washed over Cara, moving away as Tharya did. Bitterness, anger, and _ fear. _

“The rest of you.” Miraak was approaching them, Dukaan trailing behind. “I am...uncertain of how this is going to happen. If Hermaeus Mora breaks free, fight him. With everything you have.” With an unreadable look in his eyes he twisted around to see the thirty cage bars, the silent amorphous being inside. “If you cannot...” he gestured to the blue Oblivion Gate a ways behind them. “Run.”

“And you?” Erador raised an eyebrow. “We’re supposed to leave you behind?”

“It’s more important that you go on to stop the Break,” Miraak said after some consideration. “Do not concern yourself with me.” His face said he had already accepted that, but why? Why did he think himself the only valid sacrifice? 

“We aren’t going to leave you here, _ mal zeymah._” Dukaan shook his head definitively, waving his hands to shoo off the unsavory idea like a fly. “That is a sacrifice that does not have to happen.”  
“Perhaps it will not happen at all,” Miraak acknowledged, “but should it be required, I will carry through with it.”

And before any of them could reply he was leaving them, the air around his right arm shimmering before his _ shehai_, bold and bright, came into view. As he left Cara felt the only inkling of calm trickle away from the group; so that’s why he had been meditating. To still himself. To steel himself.  
“What a terrible plan,” was all Tharya said, but she sounded distant. “What a terrible plan.”

Miraak stood still in front of the cage for a long time, collecting the last shreds of fear in his veins and grinding them up. There could be nothing, if what Quaranir said was true; if he had a chance of..._twisting _ himself, of coming out of this any different than he was now—_rage demon, rage demon_, the words echoed in his head—he couldn’t risk it. Maybe he could’ve eight months ago. Maybe he would’ve. But not now. And after what felt like an eternity of staring through the liquid bars of the cage, watching the fluid from the thirty mages Elenwen had killed to accomplish this feat, he lifted his _ shehai _ and cut through the first one.

It was a simple gesture, no theatrics, no grand-standing. He sliced through one bar and the blood stopped moving for a moment before it exploded, splattering him with the red substance and staining his robes, his skin, his hair. It didn’t feel like blood, but more like sludge, thick and slow, gross to the touch. He had to move fast, then, if he didn’t want to be soaked by the time he was done, so he moved quickly to the next and cut it clean through, then to the one beside it and the one beside that. His feet moved like a dance, quick and clear, and he treated the bars like encroaching enemies. Each one he broke through stilled and then exploded in a fountain of blood, spewing it outwards and into the sky before it fell like rain to the floor of Apocrypha. _ Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen_, he counted each in his head. On the twentieth Hermaeus Mora began to move and shift, his goat eyes began to flutter open and his tentacles began to fall out of the cage like heavy, dead limbs. Each one seemed to shake all of Oblivion. _ Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. _ The last one was in sight, so close he almost felt far from it. _ Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine_. He caught a glimpse of the others standing back from the spectacle, awestruck and concerned. Tharya’s spear was glowing brightly. 

_ Thirty. _

For a moment it was all he could do to stand there and catch his breath, blood matting his hair, soaking into his arms, making his robes damp. But then the first tentacle came to life, wriggling back into consciousness, and the large eye at the center of the mass flicked open.

Ayera’s mouth fell open. “Behind you!”

He dodged it just in time and severed it with one fell swoop of his sword, and suddenly Hermaeus Mora was jolted back to life. Tentacles swinging, his amorphous body swelled to its normal size as he exited the bloody circle where his cage had stood. The Daedric Prince peered down at Miraak, who stumbled backwards, his scimitar filling his free hand.  
“Well then, my pet, my _ sweet champion_,” he drawled, “_was last time not enough?_” All across the endless plane of Apocrypha Seekers began materializing from the dead lukewarm air, their fleshy appendages writhing and slinking towards him. With no shame he turned and ran for the group, gesturing frantically to their blue Oblivion Gate.  
“Go, go! Run! _ Run! _” And they all did. Someone was frozen to the spot but he didn’t stop to see who it was, only grabbing their arm and dragging them along. Ahead of them Erador stumbled as he was hit with a draining spell, struggling back up to his feet as Ayera ushered him along. On each side more Seekers were appearing, lashing out at them, aiming their draining spells for each frenzied Dragonborn. 

Whoever was on his arms gave a tug hard enough to make him stop running, and when he turned Veros was being wrenched away by a large, slick tentacle dark as night. Hermaeus Mora was laughing.  
“You’ve brought friends, _ Miraak!_” He crowed. “Shall they be _ shown _ your humiliation from before?”  
“Suck my dick, Mora!” Tharya burst from his peripheral vision and lanced the tentacle through, sending both it and Veros to the ground. “The gate is corrupted! We’ll need a new one!” Corrupted? How was an Oblivion Gate _ corrupted? _

Erador lurched past him to strike down a pair of Seekers with the aid of Ayera’s fireball. Veros clambered to her feet again and readied the Ebony Blade in her grip.  
“I’ll cover her, you go!” The masked Dunmer proclaimed, following Tharya into the fray of swinging tentacles and drifting Seekers. 

** _Ven...gaar nos!_ **

The cyclone left his lips at full speed, picking up stray book pages and pieces of parchment in its wake. It plucked Seekers from their spots, twisting them around one another until it was all a blur. Mora grunted as his arms glanced off the whirling walls of the tornado, but his million eyes began to look bemused when the storm didn’t die down. No, it was only gaining strength and speed.  
“Gods damn it! We need another gate!” Tharya shouted, and now he saw what she meant by corrupted: each gate she had opened thus far had turned black, its surface misty and swampy, filled with a hundred yellow eyes all blinking in unison. Lurkers were pushing themselves through limb by limb. Hermaeus Mora was stealing their only way out. 

The cyclone whisked its way around Apocrypha, gobbling up Seekers and books alike. It nearly swept Cara away but Tharya grabbed her; Erador narrowly avoided becoming part of the darkening walls surrounding the funnel of air. A stray fireball aimed for the Daedra in the center of it all was caught in the wind and before any of them could divert it, the tornado was aflame, a spinning cylinder of heat and wind and fire that grew larger by the minute.

“Was that really so wise of you, _ Dragonborns_?” Mora taunted.  
“Over here! We have a gate!” Tharya was so far away and so muted by the storm he almost didn’t hear it, but Ayera repeated her words and beckoned for him to follow. Miraak plunged into the revolving cyclone with his arms outstretched and blinded by the thick grey. Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles were nothing but faint shadows stretching, falling, swelling around him. They fell and shook the ground, turning it to waves under his feet.  
“_You won’t leave here again, Miraak!” _ The Daedra growled over the shrieking wind. Ahead of him—who was that? They were standing still for just a moment before delving back into the unknown. Then they were there again, slashing at the shadowy tentacles, Shouting into Oblivion. _ Dukaan. _ His Thu’um sent ripples of power over the realm but it was not nearly as strong as his, nor Tharya’s; it was gifted by the dragons back when the Cult had been mighty. It was not in his blood; if he Shouted too much he’d expend his Voice, ruin his throat, and he wouldn’t be able to defend himself for long.

“Dukaan! Run!” Miraak shouted in the wind, motioning for the other Dragon Priest to abandon his fight. “_ Dukaan! _” There was another fiery explosion to his left that nearly knocked him off his feet. The Seekers were closer, their numbers growing larger and larger. Their hovering forms were darkening the cyclone’s walls. Dukaan was waving his arm, waving him back to the portal and yelling. “No, Dukaan! You imbecile!” He screamed above the wind.“Whatever you’re doing, there’s no need! Idiot!”

From behind, Tharya’s voice struggled to reach his ears: “Let’s go, big guy, I can’t hold this all day!” But he couldn’t. Dukaan was walking in the opposite direction, away from the gate, into the storm and into Hermaeus Mora. Why? 

Against all his intuition Miraak broke into a run, a sluggish, painful run that brought him directly to the heart of it all. He kept both eyes on the dark silhouette that ventured in and out of visibility just ahead, yelling until his throat was raw and blood was in his mouth. He would get Dukaan out of here, he would, he had to. No man left behind. No brother left behind. Wasn’t that their creed? To look after, preserve and protect one another? For better or for worse? Were those not their commandments? He drew close enough to spot twisting pink robes and put both arms out to break the wind. Closer, closer. Almost there. He was reaching forward, reaching for some strip of fabric, and his fingers closed around something and he pulled.

_ “What is this place?” Miraak looked around at the expansive white. _

_ “This...might perhaps be the afterlife?” Dukaan didn’t let go of the Dragonborn’s hand, looking around in wonder. “It is beautiful.” _

_ “It looks like the Void,” Miraak grimaced. He didn’t understand what beauty Dukaan found in an endless white world. _

_ “Miraak?” _

_ “Geh.” _

_ “It is time to let me go.” Golden eyes flicked upwards. _

_ “Krosis?” _

_ “This may be the afterlife...but it is not yours. You cannot see it. It is time for me to leave,” Dukaan gave an encouraging smile, but Miraak looked confused. _

_ “We are in Apocrypha,” he said. Dukaan felt his fingers tighten around his hand. “Well—we were. Once we are done here I am of the mind we will be returned there and we will escape. Back to Artaeum. Tharya is holding the portal for us, remember?” _

_ “You will go through.” Dukaan settled his hands on the younger man’s shoulders, giving them a generous squeeze. “I will stay and cover your escape.” _

_ “No, that’s-” _

_ Dukaan ignored Miraak and smiled at the whiteness around him. _

_ “I am ready,” he told the afterlife, “just one thing left to do.” _

_ Without a word Dukaan grabbed either side of the First Dragonborn’s face and leaned down to kiss him. Miraak was startled but didn’t move a muscle, didn’t bat an eye. This couldn’t be real. It...it just couldn’t. This was Dukaan, wasn’t it? Dukaan, his brother? Dukaan, who had sealed himself away for thousands of years just to ensure Miraak’s survival against Vahlok...just to ensure his survival. Thousands of years he’d slept, waiting, watching. All on the gamble that one day Miraak would return to Nirn, all on the mere wisp of a thought that he would come back. Dukaan, who had never turned his back on him, never once insulted or argued with him, never once betrayed his trust. Dukaan, who, out of all his brothers, had not come to try and kill him during his rebellion. _

_ Dukaan. _

_ But even as he came to this realization, even as he began to relax, even as he let his sword fall from his hands and clatter to the white ground, even as, dare he say it, he began to enjoy being kissed, the older Priest nudged him back a few steps. Behind him there was a tornado approaching, a swirling, cycloptic storm of black wind and rotting pages from volumes across the ages. Dukaan smiled once at him and turned around. _

_ “No, no,” Miraak grabbed for fuschia robes but Dukaan continued walking forward. “Dukaan! Wait!” He scrambled for his sword and chased after the Priest—when did he get so far away?—who turned only when Miraak crashed into him from behind. “You don’t have to do this! We are all safe.” He pleaded. “You can come back.” _

_ Dukaan reached for his hands. _

_ “No, mal zeymah, I cannot.” He watched golden eyes flick nervously between him and the raging storm approaching them. A twister of tentacles and fire and books and shiny tar water. _

_ “Dukaan?” _

_ “Speak to ahtlahzey.” With a burst of confidence Dukaan lifted a hand to touch the Yokudan’s cheek. “She will give you all I told her.” _

_ “No.” Miraak grabbed the man’s shoulders. “What are you doing? There is no need for a sacrifice here.” _

_ “I missed you very much, Miraak. I am glad we got to speak again, even for such a short time.” _

_ “Dukaan!” Miraak shook him. “Stop this nonsense. You are returning with me.” _

_ “No,” he said sadly, “you will never make it to the portal in time. I will stay and hold off the storm—and Hermaeus Mora.” _

_ “He is evil,” Miraak shook his head, “and strong. You alone cannot do anything against him. Please—trust me when I say this. I know.” _

_ “Go, mal zeymah.” _

_ “Not without you.” _

_ With a frustrated sigh Dukaan angled the First Dragonborn’s head down and pressed a kiss to his hairline. _

_ “Go, Miraak.” He whispered. “It is over.” The last shreds of hope escaped those molten eyes. Dukaan shoved him backwards. _

_ “I am done.” _

Miraak stumbled back out of the Oblivion Gate, and before he could even register where he was or what had just happened he made to enter it again. His face felt numb. His arms were trembling, his _ shehai _ bright; he wouldn’t leave Dukaan in there alone. Impossible. Dukaan was his brother, his friend, his...

“No!” Someone was pulling him back and just before he could go through the portal the surface became dark and murky, turning into obsidian-colored glass. It showed him his reflection, and then on the other side of the glass a large hand appeared, followed by a petrified face, its jaw unhinged to scream. A round beige face like the moon, almond eyes wide with terror and sacrifice- 

And then, he was torn away. They all stared at the Gate in horror.  
“You knew,” Miraak said quietly. His _ shehai _ vanished and he turned slowly to lock his gaze with Tharya’s. The Nord took a wary step back from him but it didn’t matter, he was already striding towards her, already invading her space, already standing so close their toes were touching and he could see the fear swimming in her eyes. “You _ knew_.”  
“Where is Dukaan?” The voice came from his _ ziinmah _ but he ignored it, throwing Jondor’s scimitar down.  
“_You knew!_” He roared, and the whole of Ceporah Tower shook. Grabbing her arms, knowing he couldn’t do anything to her, but feeling the hallucinatory rush of _ fury _ to his veins; it was all making his head spin. “_Hervig comu jeches! _ You knew, and you _ said nothing! _”

Cara watched as her Miraak winced at those words_—Hervig comu jeches!_, what did that mean?_— _ and reached for the Yokudan again.  
“Come, _ ziinmah_, before you do something you regret.”  
“Dukaan is **dead!**” His pale hands were slapped away with such force he felt the muscles tug in his shoulders. But the infuriated Dragonborn seemed to have no more words to share; he let go of Tharya with something akin to disgust and the cold sting of betrayal on his face.

“_Hervig comu jeches,_” Tharya repeated in a small voice, her deep blue eyes welling with tears. She inhaled slowly and nodded. “Yes, I knew. But you did too.” Miraak blinked rapidly and inhaled as she reached up to hold his face, forcing his watery gaze down to her. “You knew Dukaan would never be able to stay-”  
“But it didn’t have to end like this,” he hissed through a tight jaw. “It didn’t, _ ahtlahzey_.” Miraak bit down a throaty whimper, looking around the room for salvation. “It didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Miraak,” she whispered up at him. “I’m sorry.”

The first strangled sob left his lips and he crumpled, knees giving way and slamming to the floor. Tharya found she couldn’t even stand to look their allies in the eye, their friends, but she knew they were all watching her. The glassy Gate stood, sentinel-esque, unavailable behind them. The First Dragonborn was on his knees before her crying for the second time in their eight-month acquaintance, and this time, she could’ve stopped it. 

  
This time, she _ knew_.


	28. Ascension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter, more like an interlude, before the big battle finale chapter!

The spring night was cool, the heavens overhead like a single black brushstroke that darkened all it touched. Vahlok surveyed the circular courtyard but there were no signs of life besides the large, glowing tree and his brother. The open hallway that surrounded the courtyard was empty, devoid of life. All of Ceporah Tower was either asleep or silent.

Some of them, though, were mourning. 

He approached Miraak on his toes so his boots didn’t click and give away his presence. He could hear the other man whispering to himself, praying, his hunched form illuminated by Mnemoli, the moon, and a little candle lit at the tree’s base. Miraak had never been in touch with nature, and Vahlok was uncertain if it was because of his ice magic or something else, but nature had never given him clear signs or words. He recognized the prayer being spoken, soft and low: a rite for the lost loved. Spoken at funerals and deathbeds...by spouses for their dead partner.

“He told you,” Vahlok said quietly once Miraak was finished, sitting up straight after blowing the little candle out. 

“No,” Miraak was hoarse but not crying, and then he added: “yes, in a way. He deserved something from me in death.” And thus the rite of the lost loved had been spoken.

“You should’ve have come to his funeral, _ saak zeymah. _ He would have wanted you there, he enjoyed your voice.” Vahlok watched as Miraak stood, brushing his knees off and dragging his gaze slowly up the trunk of the tree into the bland night sky.

“I could not sing,” he shook his head once, “I enjoy it too much—I could not give myself the comfort of song after that.” Vahlok didn’t know what _ that _ was, but he assumed something had happened in Apocrypha. _ Yes, in a way, _Miraak had said. So he had learned of Dukaan’s feelings. And Miraak never denied himself the pleasure of singing, never shirked his duty as a Priest—something had undoubtedly happened in Apocrypha.

But before Vahlok could ask the Yokudan was embracing him, on his toes to cradle the back of Vahlok’s head to his ear and strap his other arm tightly around him.

“I know I have never been the best older brother,” he whispered, “or even a present one. I know it is too late for my regrets, since they mean nothing.” 

“That isn’t true.”

“Shh.” Miraak squeezed the back of his neck, and Vahlok was suddenly aware they were rocking ever so gently and slowly, back and forth on their feet together. “Let me apologize to you this once, this may be the only chance I get. This may be the last time I see you until I die and I would not like to waste the time we have.” Vahlok patted his back uncertainly and Miraak leaned back, both hands holding the other’s head. “I cannot say I tried my best, nor that I was good to you or our father. Not even when we struggled through his loss together was I there for you, to be your brother, and every passing day I wake regretful that I shunned you both in my final weeks.” Vahlok shook his head, green eyes narrowing. 

“You are forgetting the _ years _ upon years we spent together before that, _ saak zeymah. _ I looked up to you. You were always my closest friend.” 

Miraak’s gaze faltered and his features fell into a grave, desperately saddened countenance. 

“But I betrayed you, in the end. Years of brotherhood are nothing if they can be thrown away so easily.” He bent Vahlok’s head and kissed his hair, hugging him again. “I regret I will never have sufficient time to become your big brother again or mend the rifts I have created with _ Paiðir. _ But I missed you both more than anything in Apocrypha, and I...I love you both very much. You are dear to me.” All was silent as Vahlok took in the First Dragonborn’s words in his arms, for once feeling the flutter of brotherly love that he had not felt in millennia. When he had appeared to seal this Break, and even in his crypt, their falling out of the Merethic Era was unspoken of. Danced around, in favor of some replica of their previous relationship. Their fight, so destructive, so violent, so _ furious_, was swept away. But Miraak still bore the scars he’d been dealt, Vahlok had seen his arms and his ribs; Vahlok knew. And if Miraak could regret things that had happened thousands of years ago, then Vahlok could too.

“Perhaps in breaking decades-long bonds, it is only a few days together that create a new one.”

They both turned to the source of the sudden voice, separating from one another as Morokei approached on the faint whispering sound of cloth. He was clad in pure white robes that mimicked Miraak and Vahlok’s, though they somehow looked all the more regal on him.  
“I thought I might find you here, my sons,” Morokei smiled warmly at them, “where one of you goes the other is almost certain to follow.”

“_Paiðir_,” Miraak looked between his father and Vahlok, but the rest of his sentence was cut off by a small shrug. Words were lost on his tongue. Morokei walked with a slow, calculated gait towards the tree in the center of the courtyard. He examined it with affectionate interest, reaching out to touch its smooth, engraved trunk with gentle fingers.  
“How rare indeed to find one of these here,” he mused, but said nothing more, gave the tree no name or title, told none of them where it came from. “How rare to find us three together in peace.”

Vahlok scoffed and toed the ground with his boot, pressing his lips together before exhaling.  
“It was not so rare, once.” Morokei glanced between them before opening his arms, white sleeves spread like wings.  
“You are both far too dismal.”  
“Dukaan is dead,” Miraak said quickly, eyes narrowing. “Should I be overcome with joy?”  
“_Nid, dii kul_. But you should not blame yourself.” Morokei made a little gesture with his hands to beckon them in. “Let us not spoil the night of Dukaan’s ascension with our petty arguments. Embrace your father, _ dii kulle_. Bormahu knows when you will be given the chance to do so again.” Vahlok stepped towards the older Priest and gave Miraak an expectant look, but the First Dragonborn’s molten gaze was trained on the sky.  
“Do not worry for once, _ dii kul_,” Morokei advised kindly, “your beloved stars will return.” It took a long moment for Miraak to look away but finally he did, lowering his eyes and delivering himself simultaneously into his father’s arms. Together the brothers nestled into his shoulders and closed their eyes, feeling the age-old comfort of childhood that remained nothing but a faint, wispy memory after so long.

“Whatever happens, however this calamity is resolved,” Morokei pressed his leathery palms to Miraak and Vahlok’s hair, “we have all found each other this once, and I had not expected that to happen ever again.” Miraak shared a look with his brother across the landscape of fabric between them before Vahlok closed his eyes and Miraak spoke.  
“No, _ Paiðir. _ Neither did we.”

* * *

Quaranir didn’t know where he’d gone wrong. He knew it wasn’t necessarily true, but everything he had done for this Break, everything he had accomplished felt like a _ failure _ . As he watched the sun set against the river, as he watched the Dragon Priests clad in their stark white robes stand in the knee-deep water and sing their low, hymnal song, as he watched them push the birchwood boat down the winding body of the river, he couldn’t help but feel the distinct dread of _ failure _ crawl over him. White was the Atmoran funeral color, he was told by Morokei afterwards, because death was considered a purification; in death they returned to the arms of their gods, in death, they were washed with the same waters they were washed in as children. Black was the color of births, and lavender, marriage. 

“All life on our continent sprang from the waters of Vatus Pætrio, our sacred lake. Our funerals are always held in rivers; all rivers lead home for Atmorans.” And then the old man pressed a palm to his heart and inhaled slowly. “All rain is blessed, and all rivers lead home.” 

Quaranir had sat still as Dukaan’s boat drifted down the river, holding nothing but his staff, which Miraak had somehow brought out of Apocrypha with him. Quaranir had asked for the whip back and each Atmoran had given him a terribly black, dreadful look. _ It is a relic_, he tried to explain. _ It is valuable_. So that was what their culture had been reduced to: old museum pieces with sky-high price tags. Quaranir knew it must hurt but it was only true; Atmora was gone and the Atmorans with it. Now the whip sat in his hand, the razor links pinching his skin if he moved his palm just so. The whip sat in his hand and Dukaan’s boat was ambling on the water towards the horizon, ambling home. From water he had come, and to water he would return.

  
“You shouldn’t blame yourself, you know,” Veros and the other Dragonborns had stuck around with him after the funeral. Miraak, the pale Miraak, the other one hadn’t come, spoke to the Dragon Priests at great length. When he turned it was Ayera talking to him, coiling her snowy hair around one finger as she approached the side of the river he stood at. “You’ve done a lot for this—for all of us. We all wouldn’t be here without you.”  
“Yes, and perhaps you would not all have gone through those hellish trials,” he muttered, “and perhaps Miraak would not have gotten his arm cut off. Perhaps Dukaan would not be dead.” _Except he had to die. He had to leave. But I hoped it would not br so soon._  
“And we would not be any closer to saving the world, right?” Ayera clasped her hands behind her back and Quaranir stared at the whip again. “The trials were a necessity. Miraak’s arm is back. And Dukaan...” the Altmer shook her head. _ Casualties are a part of change_. “Try not to let this weigh on you; this wasn’t your fault.” He didn’t reply and in his silence Ayera drifted away, back to the group to rejoin the quiet circle of conversation. 

Quaranir watched the sun set until the last shreds of gold were dipping below the horizon and Dukaan’s boat was long gone, though he swore he saw it as a speck against the blazing sun. _ No_, he told himself, _ don’t look for it_. He took the whip and turned back towards Ceporah Tower—the others had already gone in—and left the river, the river of death, the river of his failures to amble on.

There was no appetite in his stomach so he returned the whip to the vault, sealed it again, and then trudged back up to their common room. His legs hurt by the time he reached it and there was a shortage of breath in his chest, but when he stepped through the threshold he was greeted by the dry warmth of a fire and the welcoming emptiness of the couch.

Or, mostly empty.

Tharya was sitting on the right side, pressed to the arm of the sofa, her fist supporting her cheek. Her eyes wandered up to him with disinterest and returned to watching the fire. Quaranir surveyed the rest of the dim room before moving to sit on the side of the couch opposite her, heaving a sigh.  
“Where’s Miraak?” He almost didn’t want to ask but he couldn’t sit here in silence either. He’d watched Tharya for two years; he knew her moping was destructive. Repressive. If she was miserable, you knew it, because you were too.  
“Crying himself to sleep, last I checked in on him,” she said it so casually it almost didn’t elicit any kind of reaction from him, but once he remembered the look on Miraak’s face, the last image of Dukaan in the Oblivion Gate, he felt his gut wrench and his head spin. “Did you know the Atmorans wear white when someone’s died?” 

The question made him pause as he moved to sit on the opposite end of the couch from her. As he sunk onto the cushion, Quaranir shook his head even though Morokei had told him earlier.  
“No, I didn’t.”  
“They believe death is a purification. Another beginning, just a different birth. So they wear white. They call it an _ ascension_.” She tilted her chin up into the air and hovered like that for a moment before relaxing back into the sofa. “I don’t know where Miraak is now.”  
“You can smell him?”  
“Of course. But he’s farther away now.” She didn’t say anything else and neither did he; what did he have to say? Some part of him thought maybe an apology was in order. The rest of him didn’t know what to even begin apologizing for. Ayera had said all the progress they’d made with the Break wouldn’t have happened without him, but somehow he felt like a group of Dragonborns and millennia-old Dragon Priests could’ve figured something out. He felt...useless. “I noticed a red star in the sky before you came up here,” Tharya looked at him for the first time, “know anything about that?”  
“Not a star, but my signal to Rumaea,” he replied glumly. “With luck, the Thalmor will be here tomorrow.” The Nord snorted.

“_With luck_.”

They fell silent again. Tharya propped her feet up on the table and leaned her head back, closing her eyes, but Quaranir couldn’t sleep. He wanted to, he was exhausted but there was too much tension in his shoulders and a dull ache at the front of his head. The last fleeting moments of Dukaan’s life played on a constant loop behind his eyes, showing him that terrified face over and over again, the shadowy tentacles that had whisked the Atmoran away and out of sight. Was that his fault? Had he done that? Maybe if he hadn’t told Dukaan so early on that his life was guaranteed to end, maybe he would survive a few days longer...maybe the Thalmor would take him. Maybe a death in the heat of battle was better than a death in Apocrypha—if he was even dead. Miraak had been near death when he’d been sucked in four thousand years ago, and though his scars had come out looking dark and tainted he had somehow survived. Good gods, he hoped Dukaan was dead for his own sake. It was a terrible thing to wish for, but a death in Apocrypha was far better than a torturous life.

“Do you think he’s truly gone?”

Tharya shifted and opened her eyes again, head swiveling to face the Psijic. “I pray that he is.” And then after a moment of consideration she added under her breath: “But who knows. I hope so.”

“Knowing Hermaeus Mora, he has either been dissolved in a tar pool or has already been bound for eternity as a slave,” the new voice made them both jolt upwards to find the tall silhouette of the First Dragonborn standing in front of the crackling fire, his arms crossed. “There are very few other options.”  
“You didn’t go to his funeral,” Quaranir observed.  
“No, I did not.” Miraak replied flatly, bowing his head to watch the flames.  
“Why not?”  
“Do you believe that is truly any of your concern?” The white robe rustled as Miraak twisted around to glare at the Altmer.  
“With all your bickering, I’m surprised we even got this far.” Veros stepped out from the shadowed doorway, tilting her head to glance at Miraak and nod respectfully in Tharya’s direction. Quaranir groaned loudly.  
“Listen, children, if we don’t have anything nice to say to one another just don’t say anything.” That earned Tharya more than one dirty look but she ignored it. “Can I talk to you for a second, though, big guy?” Miraak turned from the fireplace and nodded, following her gesture to the balcony.

The night air was cool against his face but did nothing to calm the throbbing headache that pulsated at his temples and scalp. Tharya closed the glass doors behind her as quietly as possible, reaching for his hand. “There’s something I have to show you. Dukaan, before we went to Apocrypha, he...well, he told me he didn’t expect to survive. He said something about...” she trailed away for a moment, eyes locking on the black night behind him.  
“Being able to feel his death,” he supplied finally, thinking of the beach, “a skill only the greatest Atmoran mages achieved. Those most in touch with nature and the world around them can feel shifts in the balance.”

Tharya raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Yeah. He said that, and he said I should tell you something for him, but it’d be easier to show you.” Two fingers reached up and hovered at his forehead. “If I can.” Without a word the First Dragonborn pressed his head downwards to meet her fingertips.

_ “I do not expect to come out of Apocrypha alive. Indeed, it has been made clear to me...that my continued living may only complicate things further.” _

_ They were standing in the room they had all eaten breakfast in earlier that day; Dukaan was looking down at him, which meant...he was viewing the memory through Tharya’s eyes? Miraak tried to look down, look anywhere but he couldn’t. Her gaze was fixed solely on the Dragon Priest in front of her. _ _  
_ _ “What do you mean?” She asked. Dukaan sighed and glanced worriedly around the empty room. _ _  
_ _ “I am not coming back from Oblivion, so I would ask you to relay a message to Miraak for me when I am gone.” _ _  
_ _ “Dukaan, what-” _ _  
_ _ “Please listen, little mage. It is of the utmost importance.” Strong hands gripped her urgently by the arms. “You must tell him I love him.” Tharya was silent, taken aback for a split second before scoffing. _ _  
_ _ “I’m sure he knows that.” _ _  
_ _ “No,” the Atmoran shook his head slowly, “no he doesn’t. He can’t know.” _ _  
_ _ “Why not?” _ _  
_ _ “Because.” Dukaan let go of her with a deep frown pulling at his lips. “Because he already loves you.” _

He gasped when she pulled her fingers away, shoving him back into a reality he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be in. To see his face, hear his voice so soon after his death...or his abduction. It was wrecking. In his mind Dukaan was not even cold and already he had seen him once in a memory of the past. Already, once, he had viewed the living before the demise.  
“Hey,” Tharya squeezed his fingers, “hey, come back to me. Everything’s alright.” Miraak was staring blankly at the column of her throat, his eyes wide and expressionless. “He just seemed very...insistent that I tell you. Miraak,” slowly he looked up to her eyes, “what happened back there? In Apocrypha? You were the last out, you must’ve seen something.”  
“No,” he lied for the first time since gods know when, and he knew she could tell his words weren’t truthful but he didn’t think the truth needed to be heard today, or any day, “I didn’t.”

Before Tharya could say anything Veros threw the doors open so hard they rattled and shook.  
“There’s something you need to hear,” she said simply, and with a jerk of her masked face ushered them inside. Miraak gripped the Last Dragonborn’s fingers. A group of six or seven Psijics were gathered like a hive in the doorway, shifting around each other and whispering. There was a tall, tan Bosmer at the head of the group who watched them as they walked in.  
“Dragonborns,” he bowed respectfully to Tharya and Miraak as one, “we will have to gather the others shortly.”  
“Tell us what you came here to tell us, Fimhiel.”

“Quaranir,” the Bosmer man said with an edge of surprise in his voice, “where have you been? We were looking all over for you.”  
“I’ve been here,” he gestured to the room, “why? What is it?” The seven Psijics looked around at each other in worry.  
“The suspense is killing us,” Tharya droned.  
“Quaranir, the Thalmor,” the Bosmer raised a finger to point outside, a finger they all followed out into the blank night. “The Thalmor are here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saak zeymah - big brother  
dii kul/dii kulle - my son/my sons  
Paiðir - atmoran for father


	29. finale sneak peek!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! i'm very sorry it's been so long, but as you can imagine, problems and unforeseen challenges have arisen with the outbreak of covid-19 in america and in my state. i haven't had much time to work on anything that isn't school related (we started online classes and let me tell you, is it terrible) and i've been learning that assignments for all 6 of my classes generally take me from 9AM-3:30PM to complete. tie that in with other family and personal needs, and there isn't much time to write a lot! but i hope you'll enjoy this sneak peek of the next chapter, and i promise to have it up as soon as i can!! thank you for your patience!

“You... ** _you!!_ ** ” He screamed into the brushstroke black sky. There was no answer. His only answer was the body of the Thalmor army standing across the deep fields, standing at the edge of the forest like unorthodox, foul trees waiting to strike their roots out.   
“Hey, hey,” Tharya was pulling at his arm, “come on. Come on. We’ll figure this out, Quaranir. Come on.” Miraak was with her, strong hands curling around the Psijic’s shoulders, but he shook them both off, slapped their hands away.   
“You killed her,” he snapped, watching their astounded faces. “You both killed her. All of this...” he gestured to the unforgiving world around them. “All of this is _ your _ fault.” Without another word he shoved them aside and stormed back into the tower, through the group remaining inside, vanishing down the long hallway.


	30. For Blood, For Glory, For Honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> squad prepares for battle. thalmor do likewise. sanguine gathers last-minute reinforcements.

“The Thalmor are here.”

Those words hung like lead in the air, falling to earth like weighted arrows, crashing into each of them like a wave whose size and strength had been miscalculated from the shore. The fire whined and deflated. They all stared at each other as if enough worried eyes on one person would elicit more from them, or even a burst of laughter and a pointing finger—_just a joke, silly!_—but nothing happened. Quaranir was first to look away and cast his gaze to his boots.   
“Is anyone with them?”   
“Yes,” Fimhiel nodded, “another Psijic.” Hope sprung in the Altmer’s green eyes.   
“And you, why are you warning us?” Veros quipped.   
“They have defied the Council’s ruling and have chosen to help us,” Quaranir replied. “Fimhiel, I hope you know what this means for you.”   
“We would not have joined you if we were not willing to accept the consequences,” the Bosmer nodded. 

Tharya broke away from the group to pace towards the fire, tapping her fingers against her sides. A Thalmor army was here, on Artaeum, waiting for them. An attack under cover of night, under a weak, pale moon. And there was, what—only sixteen of them, excluding the Dragon Priests? Against the bulk of the Thalmor forces?   
“I rallied some reinforcements from each of your respective timelines quite some days ago,” Quaranir’s words trickled into her ears as if he had known her exact thoughts, “I asked them to remain at the ready should we need them.”   
“You should collect them,” Miraak answered, but she couldn’t tell which of them it was, “we will need all the help we can get.”   
“Tharya?” Sanguine called from the table. “I can bring in some Dremora, if that would help. Nothing big, just a legion or two.” She waved him affirmative and together Quaranir and Sanguine exited the room.   
“Jyggalag?” The Nord turned finally, rubbing a hand against her forehead. “Anything?”   
“No, Dragonborn.” Sheogorath’s armored counterpart shook his head, “I do not have anyone or anything that may aid us.” 

Tharya barely heard his reply; it was lost in the multiple heartbeats that rumbled in her ears, each beating at its own pace and volume like erratic wardrums in her head. The heartbeats, and _ gods_, the smells. Everything was muddled and yet so strikingly, painfully clear: lavender, but diluted by fresh ice, smoke, but smothered by rosemary, cold stone mingling with books and fur. What was happening? Those senses normally affected by her lycanthropy were going wild, and on top of it she couldn’t even see the world properly; everything was made of divine energy, glimmering and bright, with only outlines of objects to use as identifying factors.   
“_Ahtlahzey? _ ” Miraak sounded so incredibly close but she could see his aura, orange, burnt ochre standing still near the table. “What is the matter?” With a strangled gasp Tharya staggered forward, her beast blood singing in her veins, making them swell, or at least that’s what it felt like. Miraak reached out to her but she swerved around his arms, ignoring his voice however close and deafening it was. The smells in the room switched almost immediately. Everyone was venting _ worry_. _ Concern_. It filled the room and circulated like a sour breeze but she kept moving, towards the window. Towards the light dancing on the floor, the bloody red shaft of what she guessed was moonlight. Why was it crimson? Why was her head swimming? 

She stepped into the strip of light and a low, not at all human growl left her throat. She could feel her body stir but she forced the wolf down and away. _ No. Not in front of everyone. _ Forcing her eyes up the window, peering out the glass, she recoiled almost immediately from the moon hanging in the sky.

A blood moon.

* * *

Elenwen’s knees were weak and shaking, but she couldn’t let anyone else see that. She stood tall and proud and Altmer in front of her army, Ceporah Tower the apple of her dull, lifeless eyes. Her hair had turned thin and wiry and each morning since binding that treacherous Daedric Prince to her will she’d had to brush it off her pillow; so her hood was up. As was everyone else’s, because the Thalmor could appear nothing less than uniformly terrifying in the faces of these ragtag ruffians, rebels, and local drunkards Quaranir had chosen to defend the world.

Elenwen had a vision, and that vision included an Elven empire that spanned the continent of Tamriel, that harnessed the powers of the heavens, that destroyed the Nords and their false pantheon of Nine. Elenwen had a vision, and right now, the only thing keeping her from it was an Atmoran relic and a half-wit Nord with some useless elves at their backs.

“My lady,” she recognized Ondolemar’s smooth, handsome voice as it took place beside her, “our forces are gathered. The Tears are ready to be opened, on your command of course.”  
“Good.” Her voice was little more than a croak but she liked to believe there was still power behind it. Things always grew worse before they became better, wasn’t that the saying? “And our rider?”   
“Saddling his horse as we speak, Emissary.” Another nod. “Emissary—Elenwen, if I may,” he began with that gentle voice turned soft for her, just the way she liked it, “my wife, the Direnni girl. I-”   
“Fret not, Ondolemar.” Elenwen grimaced. _ His wife_. His pretty little wife, was that all he thought of? “She will be captured alive and given to you the moment the heads of both Dragonborns are at my feet.”   
“I have your word?” He insisted. She sighed.   
“You have my word.” With a gentle wave of her skeletal hand she dismissed him and he backed away, barking out orders at the nearest loitering soldiers. They had catapults to load, Tears to open. 

There was a hot breeze that rolled lazily across Artaeum just then, hot but dry and almost refreshingly warm against the night chill. It stirred Elenwen’s robes and her hood and her wiry hair below, filled her nose with the scent of blooming grass and flowers. On her opposite side, now, someone else was approaching, but she closed her eyes to listen to the breeze as it touched all of the island.  
“First Emissary,” Arelda spoke quietly but firmly on her left, “our messenger is ready to depart. Nearly all battalions are set.”   
“Good. Tell the rider he may leave at will, but do not order our soldiers to move. Light the beacons.”   
“Yes, First Emissary,” Arelda bowed again, her yellow Psijic robes rustling. “We will win.” Elenwen hummed to herself and let her eyes flutter open again.   
“Yes, Arelda, you should hope we do.” The ambassador turned her back on Ceporah Tower to examine their forces gathered before exhaling, leaning close to the Bosmer girl’s pointed ear, whispering: “Or we will send your severed head in a box next.”

* * *

There was sweat beading at Quaranir’s brow but he was determined to keep the portal open. This was the last one but already he was feeling the muscles in his arms strain, his magicka pools slowly trickling away. He hadn’t asked anyone to come for Tharya and Miraak, though with the entire might of the Solstheim Priests at their back, did they need anyone?Ayera and Erador’s traveling companions had arrived, two Nords and a Dunmer named Sven, Bjorn, and Fevuril; Vilkas and Farkas of Cara’s timeline as well as a masked man in chitin armor; and now, stepping through this portal he that was making him tremble to keep open was a familiar vampire with short black hair and glowing yellow eyes.  
  
“Serana?” Veros was the only one standing near Quaranir and thus near the last portal, since he had told her someone was coming from her side of the world. He couldn’t be sure, but she had seemed confused about it—someone was coming? For _ her? _ And then Serana had stepped through the portal, slowly examining the inside of the great hall, the huge wooden doors that led outside, the gathering of Dragonborns and Dragon Priests all talking in a low hum a few yards away.

Serana had stopped hoping a long time ago that Veros would come back. How could she keep hoping? She knew Veros. She knew her like no one else did. She'd seen the woman retreat from Skyrim, from everything, accepting her divinity in isolation. And...for a while, Serana thought she could help. She'd dreamed of taking Veros' hands in hers, bringing her back from that peak she seemed so determined to perch on. But she'd never been brave enough for that. And so Veros had taken the grand, shining bow, and the Elder Scroll that Serana had spent so long in the dark with, and left. All the vampire could remember was how distant her eyes had been. So Serana had stopped hoping, and instead thrown herself into helping the Dawnguard. Isran had warmed up—well, relatively speaking—and the others were cordial, and slowly accepting her as an unlikely ally. She wandered, going on missions, using the stealth and speed of the vampires to cross holds at breakneck speeds. And despite everything—she'd always paused when seeing a group along the roads, or hearing a dragon overhead. Still watching for Veros. Still waiting.  
“I was told the world needed more saving,” Serana tried to sound confident and smile, but even with the mask she could tell Veros was shocked. She was shocked too. She felt all those days and weeks of waiting return to her in one moment, full force, like a brutal wave crashing onto the sand. Veros moved closer to answer and gods, how she wanted to hear that voice again, but someone was calling them towards the group and waving them over.

It was a blonde Nord with an odd staff in her hand. Beside her was a tall, dark-skinned man with a scimitar and a cherry wood staff strapped to his back. He and six other equally tall men were wearing impeccably white robes. Weren’t they going into battle?

"This won't be fun.” The Nord woman began. “The Thalmor have caught us at a terrible time, whether they know it or not. But we can't let them know that. The moment they see we aren't giving our all, we've lost the battle. Weaknesses are exploited in a war and the Thalmor are nothing if not experts in finding weaknesses." 

"How can this be a war if it's only one battle?" A gold-skinned elf with ebony hair asked from just beside Serana. The Nord straightened out and crossed her arms over her chest, exhaling through pursed lips. "Not every war is bloody. This war has seen kidnappings, deaths, Daedra, the breaking of Time, you name it. But battle is what decides a war--as _ people _ our natural instinct is to fight and dominate. Battles will decide everything. You don't have to trust me, but I'm a soldier, so at least trust that." She looked around the loose congregation of people. "This is usually the part someone makes an inspiring speech."

Silence.  
  
“No takers? Well. Circle up," she stepped forward and grabbed the Redguard’s hand on one side, Veros's on the other, "that's right, hold hands. I just want to take a moment..." she trailed off as she looked at each of them and then shook her head. Serana noted a strange figure reluctantly joining the group, a man with dull eyes and white hair wearing silver armor. "Pray to whatever gods you worship. We'll be needing it." And slowly, ceremoniously, each of them joined hands in the large circle, and one by one heads went down. One last moment as the group they had become; strangers, still, to some extent, but bound by the greater need, the greater good. They had come into this knowing nothing of each other and left knowing not much more, but still the connection was undeniable. None of them would soon forget what would happen here, whether it ended in defeat or victory. None of them would _ want _ to forget. 

Tharya was first to speak after what felt like an eternity of silence. "Drinks are on me."  
“Hold just a moment,” Jyggalag butt in before she’d reached the last syllable, “how are we expected to trust your self-control during what is likely to be a bloody battle under a _ blood moon? _ ” His words made her back go rigid but she knew it was within his rights to ask; and by the looks on everyone else’s faces, they were secretly wondering the same thing in the depths of their minds. “How can we trust you to deny the call of the Hunt?”   
“Do I look like Hircine to you? I’m not going to bring the Wild Hunt to Nirn, relax.” Tharya snorted, shifting uneasily on her feet. “I can control myself.”   
“Can you?”   
“_Yes._”   
“When is the last time you gave in?”   
“That is none of your concern,” she said defensively, stepping out of the circle, the first to break it. “All you need to know is that I’m not going to rip your hearts out, but don’t be surprised if you see me...what did you say? _ give in _ on the battlefield.” A strained silence hung between them all.

And then the knocking broke it.

As one they turned to look at the large doors that blocked them from the outside and the outside from them. The knock was patient at first but then came louder and longer. Louder. Longer. Louder.  
“Why the hell are the Thalmor knocking on our front door?”   
“They’ve sent a runner,” Tharya gave her spear a jerk and it snapped out to full length. “Probably to negotiate surrender. I’ll-”   
“No, let me.” Quaranir waved her off and walked briskly to the door, his robes whispering with his stride. He held both palms up to the door and they began to glow a faint blue, humming with magic momentarily before it faded out from the center and the doors creaked open. On the other side of them was an elf dressed in uniform black Thalmor robes, his hood blown down. There was a horse digging its hoof into the ground behind him.   
“A gift from the First Emissary,” the rider sneered, extending a wooden box covered with a white cloth to Quaranir. Cautiously the Psijic took it. Before the box could be opened the messenger was slinging himself back into his saddle, sparing them all one glance before sprinting off.   
“What is it?” Cara called from inside, inching closer to the opened doors. Quaranir stared at the box, a feeling of undeniable dread hanging heavily from his ribs. It was only a box, and yet...it reeked of disaster.

With slow and reluctant fingers he peeled back the cloth, letting it flutter to the ground. Blank, lifeless Dunmer eyes stared back up him, a cold grey face splattered with blood. A neck that led nowhere except the wooden frame of the container. A severed head. Rumaea’s. 

His arms began to tremble, bursting, aflame with rage. The box shook with them, turning, crumpling to ash in his hands. Rumaea’s head fell with a sickening noise to the ground at his feet, tumbling a few yards away.   
“You... ** _you!!_ ** ” He screamed into the brushstroke black sky. There was no answer. His only answer was the body of the Thalmor army standing across the deep fields, standing at the edge of the forest like unorthodox, foul trees waiting to strike their roots out.   
“Hey, hey,” Tharya was pulling at his arm, “come on. Come on. We’ll figure this out, Quaranir. Come on.” Miraak was with her, strong hands curling around the Psijic’s shoulders, but he shook them both off, slapped their hands away.   
“You killed her,” he snapped, watching their astounded faces. “You both killed her. All of this...” he gestured to the unforgiving world around them. “All of this is _ your _ fault.” Without another word he shoved them aside and stormed back into the tower, through the group remaining inside, vanishing down the long hallway.

They had just barely shut the doors again when Quaranir reappeared, a navy blue Elder Scroll set with one single diamond in the center in his hands.  
“The Starless Prophecy. Your doing,” he shoved the Scroll into Tharya’s arms, ignoring the angry crease in Miraak’s face—oh, the Atmoran did not scare him right now, the big scarred Dragon Priest with a Voice to destroy the whole world did not scare him—and crossing his arms. “Open it.”

Tharya meekly complied, opening the Elder Scroll with care, letting the silky parchment rest in her hand.   
“Read it.” Quaranir demanded, and she looked once at him before exhaling quietly, taking a few steps to the side as if to address the whole group.   
“Quaranir, I’m no Moth Priest-”   
“You don’t need to be. I read it myself, when Death gave it to you. Read it.”

“By the breath of saints are the stars extinguished. By the breakage of Time are the Fractures converged. By the Red Night is the sky relinquished. By the Blue Star are the many diverged.” As soon as she had finished Quaranir snatched it back.  
“_That _ is your prophecy, Tharya Throne-Breaker. That, and all the others, are what you have brought upon us. Now let the Daedra gather his legions, let the Priests Shout the world asunder with their Thu’um. Whatever the consequences.” He aimed an accusatory finger at her. “The others have gathered here at my request for _ your _ benefit. Whatever the consequences, they will be _ yours_.”   
She frowned. “There’s an army of Thalmor just waiting for us to leave this tower, Quaranir.”   
“Then what will you do?”

Tharya was quiet for a long moment before twisting around to look at the doors, a sliver of night between them. They were not fully closed.  
“I am going to fight the Thalmor,” she said quietly, speaking only to her boots and the stone beneath them, “if anyone wants to leave now, go ahead. But I’m going to fight the Thalmor.” She adjusted her grip on her spear and turned away, stalking towards the doors, pushing one open with every muscle in her body and stepping outside. Around him, the others followed. Miraak. The Solstheim Priests. Ayera, Erador, their companions. Veros and Serana, barely holding each other’s hands. Jyggalag with an exasperated sigh. The seven Psijics who had agreed to stand with him. Cara, Vilkas, Farkas, and Miraak.

But all he could see was Rumaea’s head, her glittering Dunmer eyes, smooth grey skin, and the box turning to ash around her.

* * *

The Battlefield, as Sanguine called it simply, was not his favorite part of the Myriad Realms of Revelry. After all, they were realms of _ revelry_, and generally he liked to leave the heavy duty stuff to Dagon, Boethiah, and hell, Molag Bal—they _ were _ the triumvirate of Daedric Princes who regularly liked to, how to put it nicely, screw with Nirn. But some of Sanguine’s followers preferred the blood and sensual thrill of battle, and he was not one for denying sensual thrills of anything, so The Battlefield had been created. The Battlefield and The Arena, side by side, though one usually had more drinking, whores, and laughing. 

Life on The Battlefield had come to a grinding halt once he had arrived, and immediately his Dremora had begun arranging all the odd souls who took pleasure in being covered in each other’s guts and blood into rows and columns. There had to be hundreds of them, two thousand _ maybe_. There would be more in The Arena, and more still in the Daedric parts of the Myriad Realms. His Dremora were countless and all but invincible.   
“How many?” Kynval-69 was at his side, that same stern frown plastered on his face. Kynval-69 was his favorite, and not just for the number.   
“One thousand five hundred,” Kynval-69 answered. “Two thousand more coming from The Arena, Lord Sanguine.”   
“Good to know. And legions, legions. How many?”   
“All three, totaling ten thousand. Grand total of thirteen thousand five hundred.”   
Sanguine shifted on his feet and chewed on his lower lip. Thirteen thousand? Could they even fit that many people on Artaeum? How many did the Thalmor have?   
“Cut it in half--no, more. Does thirteen thousand sound like overkill?”   
“No.” Kynval-69 said flatly.   
“I’ll take The Battlefield and Arena...” he did some calculation in his head, humming in his throat, “...and half the Third Legion.”   
“Grand total of four thousand five hundred. Lord Sanguine, the Elves have eight thousand.” But Sanguine waved Kynval-69 off, shaking his head, surveying The Battlefield.   
“Split the four thousand in half. Half spawn in the forest, behind the tree line, and attack once the battle begins and the Thalmor are focused.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he began walking to his left, the Dremora Kynval following faithfully behind. “The other half spawn with me, at the Tower, with Tharya.” Half and half was a good plan. And with two thousand Dremora and kill-happy souls waiting behind the trees, the Thalmor wouldn’t stand a chance. “Sure, the Elves got eight thousand. We have half that. But you know our secret, Kynval-69?” He shot the Dremora a grin over his shoulder. “Not one of us can die like the Elves can.”

* * *

A warm, humid breeze rolled over Artaeum, dragging its feet over the wide strip of field that stood between them and the Thalmor. Things on their side had been hectic; they’d watched as the Thalmor lit massive fires between each battalion, and then looked on in horror as their mages tore open the very air to create rugged portals into other universes, other timelines, other eras. Armored trolls were ushered through, battlemages in full, elegant regalia. Even more soldiers who looked to be dressed in the armor of the Second Era.  
“_Ahtlahzey_,” Miraak was behind her all of sudden, “when you are ready, step back onto this glyph.” Tharya twisted around to look up at him and then down between their feet. He’d drawn something in the dirt and now it glowed a faint blue up at them.   
“When I’m ready? That’s vague as ever.”   
“You will know.” He wrapped an arm around her and drew in the figure hovering on his right—Vahlok—pressing them both into his embrace. “Look after each other, for I will not be able to.” And just like that he whisked himself away, tapping his pale counterpart on the shoulder. They both joined the other Priests standing a few yards ahead of the group, looking prepared for battle despite their stark white robes. 

The Thalmor closed their Tears across the field, and it looked as if their numbers had multiplied. Good gods, Sanguine couldn’t take long enough. From the line of Priests there was a blinding burst of light that left them all stunned and shielding their eyes, drawing closer to one another on instinct.   
“What the hell?” Erador shouted. No one had an answer for him, until there was a deafening chorus of draconic roars, the flap of wings sending hot air against their faces. From the explosion one dragon rose, one she recognized; a dusky gold with gleaming scales and black eyes. It soared over their heads and looped around Ceporah Tower, a Thu’um tearing through the night sky:

** _Dur...neh viir!_ **

From behind the trees, behind the Thalmor a fierce tremble erupted, shaking the earth below their very feet as if a monstrous sinkhole had opened and then somehow clasped shut. A skeletal dragon burst from the treetops, his bones rattling with each movement of his wings. But he had no scales, at least not immediately; as he flew his flesh and scales began to return, taken from the sky around him, molding back onto his bare bones. By the time Durnehviir reached them he was a full dragon again, a sickly shade of green but no less magnificent.  
“_Qahnaarin, _ you free me once again,” the green dragon sounded beyond jubilant and landed beside Miraak to the left of the Tower.   
“And once again I have called for your aid,” he rumbled back, swinging his golden head to the unchristened battlefield.   
“You shall have it, _ Qahnaarin_,” Durnehviir bowed his horns, “how warm the air is this time! It-” but he was cut off, this time by a shrieking war horn. They all swiveled to look behind them where the sound had come from, and were met with a stretching wall of black and red. Sanguine was at the front of the Dremora legion on an abomination of a steed, circling around the right side of the tower.   
“Dragonborn! Got your legions for you!” He shouted, waving one arm wildly.   
“Thank the gods.” Ahzidal crowed from ahead. “Now this battle can start in earnest.”   
“Agreed,” Tharya said, “everyone ready? Are we all in this?” But she was met only with a hesitant silence. She met the eyes of her companions who all looked back at her. "We were all brought here for a reason. We were all brought together for a reason. Agreed?” A few nods. “We're going to have to work together if we want even the slightest chance of succeeding. Are we together?"

They looked at each other. "We're together."

"Good. Let's fix this shit and go home."


	31. But in Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt. miraak and ondolemar meet face to face; tharya activates prime miraak's spell only for them to fall victim to it; elenwen meets her end (or does she?), and unexpected help arrives.

Another elf clad in black rushed towards her, another elf clad in black met the bashing face of her shield. Miraak swung and slashed his sword in expert Atmoran strokes, decapitating someone who charged in from their left, piercing another through the gut.  
“Mage!” He yelled, and Cara swung around without hesitance to block the incoming lightning bolt. Arching tendrils of purple electricity danced and dissipated outwards from the shield’s center. The Altmer shot another bout of lightning at them, making Cara push her heels into the ground. Another spell, this one blasting heat around the sides of the shield. The Thalmor yelled and Cara readied herself to block his weapon. Miraak lunged outwards and knocked the blade from his grip, thrusting his sword forward.

"Hey, Cara!" They both spun to see Tharya approaching through the throng of Thalmor soldiers. She needled her spear through one Thalmor's chest, leaving it there to turn around and kick another soldier away, Shout him down, then grabbed the spear and whipped to the rear to slice the tip through another Altmer's gut. "Hey," she repeated, breathing heavily, "night battles are always whacky, am I right? Anyway, I can't be certain but one of Sanguine's Dremora reported Thalmor forces behind the Tower. Can I ask you guys to check that out for me?" Cara and Miraak nodded in unison. 

"How did they get behind the Tower?" The ebony-haired elf asked. 

"I have no idea," Tharya said truthfully, "maybe one of those Tears. But if they get into the Tower it could be bad, and Miraak thinks we may be able to use it to bring Mnemoli down." 

"Bring Mnemoli--is he trying to kill us all?" Blond Miraak looked both bewildered and concerned. Tharya shrugged. 

"Hard to tell sometimes. But get on that; we'll catch up later."

Just like that she was fighting her way away from them.   
“Behind the Tower?” Cara echoed, grabbing Miraak’s arm. There was a relatively clear path back to Ceporah Tower. They fought like a well-oiled team, back to back sometimes, side by side others. The doors drew closer with every Thalmor cut down. Above them the golden dragon roared, circling the Tower on the left. As he did, a burst of ice fell from his jaw, aimed at some unseen enemy on the northern side of the building. “Tharya must be right, then.” Cara said, watching the dragon circle again and return to the battlefield. 

Together they pushed the heavy wooden doors open and slammed them shut. Ceporah Tower was immensely quieter than the field.   
“Why would the Thalmor be interested in the Tower?” Miraak wondered aloud.   
“Relics, maybe? The Psijics have impressive collections of artifacts, books, anything.” Cara squeezed the handle of the shield and it molded back into a cuff on her wrist.   
“Perhaps they think they’ll find something that will help them.” They whisked by empty hallways--where was everyone?--glancing into rooms devoid of life. The Psijics they weren’t working with or weren’t working with Quaranir had always kept them at an arm’s length, but as they traversed up the stairs and followed the wafting scent of burning wood, the emptiness was uncanny. They came to the open courtyard and the ancient tree in the center of it. Still no Psijics were in sight. Going through the courtyard, they continued up, up dizzying spiral stairs, directly into a hallway filled with choking black smoke.   
“What the—what’s burning?” Cara coughed, waving the smoke away from her eyes. Miraak grabbed the neckline of his robes to cover his mouth and nose.   
“What’s on this floor?” He asked.   
“I don’t know.” She hesitated for a second before beckoning him to follow her down the hallway. Together they stepped into the smoke, squinting, eyes watering, coughing into their robes. A black figure darted out at them, stumbling into Cara-   
“Go!” The figure was clad in sooty Psijic robes, holding a number of tomes to their chest, “go, get out! Get out!” The Psijic barreled by them, dropping one of the books and scrambling to pick it up before vanishing down the stairs. 

Despite the warnings they continued on. The hallway split, left and right, both sides clouded by smoke. From the left there were voices yelling to another and from the right, a prompt belch of flames.  
“You go that way!” Cara tugged his arm. “I’ll look for survivors.”   
“What do you think happened?”   
“I don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.” He grabbed her hand for a moment, loathe to let it go, but with a squeeze he did and she disappeared around the bend of the hallway. He went right, shielding his eyes from the smoke with a hand. Heat burst into his face as soon as he turned the corner, choking his lungs off, making his vision dance for a moment. Another explosion, but it was farther away. Miraak pressed down the empty hallway, the smoke growing thicker and thicker until he could barely see the walls around him. Blindly reaching in front of him, his hands came into contact with a hot wooden door and shoved it open.

Before him was a semi-circle library with shelves stacked all the way to the ceiling and on the flat wall to his left, overturned tables and strewn chairs in the center. There was a faint figure dodging between the furniture searching frantically through piles of books, darting to the nearest shelf to examine the spines. He recognized that face...those beady, scheming eyes. He recognized that elf.  
“_Ondolemar! _ ” Rage bubbling in his veins, Miraak strode forward, sword in hand, towards the scrambling Thalmor. “You rat.”   
“Oh, _ you_,” Ondolemar shot up, surprise quickly overwritten by menacing disgust. “Come to kill me, have you?” The Altmer’s gloved fingers fell open and through the smoke Miraak could see a purple Bound blade shimmer into his hand. “I’m afraid that won’t be happening. Once Elenwen has killed the rest of your friends, I’ll let this place burn itself to the ground and take _ my wife _ back to where she belongs.”

“Don’t you dare,” the blond Atmoran hissed, knuckles white, “don’t you _ dare _ think I will not take your head from your shoulders before that can happen.”   
“She is _ mine_, by right! I am her husband.” Ondolemar snapped, kicking a chair aside to step forward. “She is mine. And I will make her watch you die. Better yet,” a sickening grin spread over his lips, “I’ll send her your head in a box.”

With a roar the Atmoran charged forward, sword above his head and descending onto Ondolemar’s Bound blade. The blow was deflected and he was shoved back, but it was nothing but a christening meet to signal the start of their fight. Slowly, carefully, like animals they circled each other in the grey, moving in and out of the smoke like shadows, like mist.   
“I think I will kill you slowly,” Ondolemar crowed, swinging his sword on his fingers. “I think...she will hear every scream, every plea as you beg for mercy.”   
“Then you are either a coward or a twisted man,” Miraak shot back, “there is no honor in torture. You will have a swift end,” he jumped forward and Ondolemar scuttled back, “but your death will not be painless.”

Ondolemar fought in a flurry of movement, brutal and swift. Elegant, in a deadly way. It was all Miraak could do to deflect, parry, deflect again, slide back, dodge. Breathe. Again. The soot and dirt scraped under his boots against the stone floor, the heat and smoke stung his eyes. But it was no different for Ondolemar and he knew; if he could only wait for the break, the opening. He would seize the chance. He had to. There was no other way. The wispy purple blade darted out from the smoke and he leaned back from it, taking the moment to slam the extended arm away with the flat of his blade. But Ondolemar recovered quickly, swinging back from the side in a wide arch that locked their swords together, silencing the endless metallic ringing in Miraak’s ears for a brief moment.

“She will never be yours,” the elf hissed.  
“She will never be anyone’s,” the Atmoran snapped back, “she is her own.”

With a shove they parted. Deflect, parry, deflect again, slide back, parry, dodge. Breathe. Inhale the pungent smoke that stings and burns the throat. Breathe, for it is the only air to be had. There was a belch, an explosion of flames and sparks as another bookcase caught fire. Wood squealed and succumbed to ash as it was consumed. Deflect. Dodge. Kick. There was an overturned chair beside him—with a scoop of his arm he slung it towards Ondolemar. It broke against a ward. Dodge. Thrust forward—miss. Close, though. Deflect. Lock. Every muscle in his torso straining, Miraak _ pushed _ against the ethereal blade, his jaw clenched and a shout clawing from his lips as he transferred his sword to one hand. Ondolemar looked between him and his bone-white knuckles with frightened eyes. Miraak summoned a Bound sword of his own in his freed hand; with a hard shove the Altmer’s resolve broke and his blade fell, swung low. But he didn’t get the chance to bring it around again.

There was a wispy lavender sword thrust forward from the smoke, and this time it buried itself deep in his torso.  
“There,” Miraak said as if he’d just finished a novel, drawing closer to the justiciar. He was clawing at the ghostly hilt protruding from his stomach. Blood dribbled from his dry golden lips, his eyes bulging, throat choked off. “As a Priest, I am inclined to ask for your last words.” Miraak wrenched the blade to the side and then tore it from the elf’s gut, letting him drop unceremoniously to the ground. The dirty, gritty stone became slippery with blood more crimson than the fire around them. Breathe. Inhale the smoke.

Ondolemar’s lips moved as the Atmoran stood over him. Was he trying to speak? To plead for mercy, beg forgiveness? It didn’t matter now. Even if he was, the fury in Miraak’s veins was tight and hot, blocking out whatever words could come from the elf’s dried mouth. He caught the justiciar’s wide, glassy eyes before placing the tip of his sword, his real sword, over his heart. This was not a blow to be dealt by magic. He gripped the sword in his hands, steadying it, narrowing his eyes on Ondolemar through the smoke.  
“But I don’t think I will.”

And he pushed.

When he exited the flaming library, bookcases around him tumbled and shrieked as they fell. He shut the doors again, breathing heavily, coughing a dry and scratchy cough as his lungs struggled to find air. Cara rounded the corner as soon as she heard him. She ran down the hall, hands outstretched to grab his arms.  
“Miraak—what happened? Are you alright?” She looked him over, touching the leather bag slung around his chest. “What’s this?”   
“_Fil Grundde. _ The Star Charts. And the Scrolls,” he wiped the soot off his eyes with one hand, gesturing to the grimy Elder Scrolls under his opposite arm. “And a book...a book the Psijics perhaps they believe they should have, but would do better in Atmoran hands.” The tome in question was black with a leather buckle, and a hole through it the size of an infant’s fist.   
“And the rest of the library?”   
“Ondolemar was there,” he said suddenly, not wanting to dirty her face with his hands but lightly touching her cheek anyway. Faint fingerprints of soot slid off her skin. Her pupils shrunk. “I think he was after these. But he’s gone.”   
  
Cara exhaled shakily against his palm.   
“He’s gone.”

* * *

“Hey, Miraak!” She yelled into the sky, waving her arms frantically for the dragon to land. “Miraak, come down!” A hand reached for her arm to yank her backwards, earning itself a spear through the gut. The Thalmor were swarming around her, fighting off the Dremora army—which, she noticed, was smaller than she’d hoped—and Sanguine, who was cackling like a madman not far to her right. But she needed to get away from it. The blood, the scent of sweat and veins bursting; it was driving her crazy. She didn’t know how Vilkas and Farkas from Cara’s timeline were holding it together, though she’d fought back-to-back with Farkas not long ago and he’d nearly bitten someone’s head off with his still-human teeth. She needed to get up and out, hoping the air above the battlefield would be less drenched in scent.

The golden dragon seemed to notice her but only briefly; maybe not enough for his full attention to be diverted. Tharya made to call for him again, trying to stitch together a Shout of his name, but _ Mir-Aak _ was only two syllables. She yelled to him again but was cut off by an explosion of magicka just behind her, heat searing her back and legs, tossing her into the air and forward like a rag doll. The spear slipped from her hands. Around her, Dremora yelled as they too were blown to the sky, landing forcefully back on the ground, but their cries were muffled. Her head spinning, her ears ringing and the battlefield silenced, the Nord pushed herself on her hands and wobbly knees, searching blindly for her spear.

The ground under her quivered terribly as she fought the darkness encroaching on the edges of her vision. Her nostrils stung with blood and magic. Two massive wings folded in around her just then, and vaguely she could see the scaled neck of a _ dovah _ extending, a jaw unhinging, and a burst of bitter winter air and ice spewing forth. The dragon’s roar deafened her all over again, air crackling and thick with magic.   
“_Dii fil,_” the beast rumbled after what felt like an eternity of muffled sounds and hands clamped over her ears. Miraak nudged her curled up body gently with his nose. “You asked for me?”

Everything was dim in the protection his wings provided. She wanted to take her time getting up, wanted to ease the new throbbing in the back of her head as she knelt and then stood, hands swinging out to steady herself against the dragon. He craned into her as best he could for just a brief moment.  
“The glyph,” she said once she had found her voice again, hoarse though it was, “I think it’s time for the glyph.” A cool burst of air hit her as Miraak unfolded his wings and bowed his head.   
“I think so as well.”   
“Hey, hold on—do I get to ride you?” Black eyes narrowed on her.   
“How else will you fly?”   
“Damn. _ Awesome._” And without hesitation she was scrambling up his neck and throwing herself over, grasping at his scales. “What am I supposed to hold onto?”   
Dragons didn’t have much in the way of facial expressions, but she could hear his grin.

“Anything you can.” With a beat of his wings and push from his hind legs he was in the air, going higher, higher, higher until they were well above the battle and the air was cooling off.   
“You have to teach me how to do this!” She yelled. 

By the looks of it, the Thalmor still had soldiers left to spare; they’d only sent out half their forces, and the other half was waiting patiently and safely at the opposite end of the field. It looked like they were readying themselves to open new Tears, and where the hell had those trebuchets come from? They were small but loaded. Nearly ready to fire.  
“Why didn’t we think of Tears?” She said to herself. When Elenwen had first appeared on Artaeum, she was certain those trebuchets hadn’t been with them.   
“Because we recognize the strength of Time and give her due respect,” Miraak replied, “the _ fahliil _ do not, and for that they will pay dearly.” Miraak swung left and circled Ceporah Tower, flying directly through a thick column of billowing grey smoke.   
“What’s on fire?!” She raced to cover her nose from the biting smell. The air up here had been better already, clearer, colder, but now the smoke permeated it.   
“The library. Cara and _ ziinmah _ are inside.” He continued up, circling the tower each time until they were growing closer to its top. Mnemoli became more and more suppressive, weighing on her shoulders, blinding her with stark blue light. Miraak’s wings became sluggish, like he was struggling for each beat up and down. “Can you see the glyph?”   
“From up here? No way,” she replied, her mouth feeling thick and stuffed full of cotton.   
“It does not matter. Remember it, and throw your spear.” He was hovering now, straining under Mnemoli’s damning gaze, waiting for her. Hastily Tharya scooted forward just a few feet more, wondering if she could stand but not brave enough to try. Her spear was in her grip, cool metal meeting wood warmed by her palm.   
“What is this glyph gonna do?” She asked. He didn’t answer.

Tharya let it take form in her head, behind her closed eyes. She banished the thrumming of her wolf blood from her head, letting go of the smells and sounds, doing her best to ignore the blood moon. She remembered its shape, its size, the soft glow between her feet. She remembered its markings, its magical hum. She remembered the power it emanated, the wisps of magicka dancing around it. It appeared in her mind, filled her head, and with her eyes closed she tightened her grip on her spear, thinking only briefly of their allies—_whatever you do, please don’t hurt them_—and hurled it into the night.

Miraak flew after it at once. Mnemoli more or less shoved him away as he angled downwards with a push of his wings, tail taut behind him. The spear shimmered in the twilight as it descended, tip-down, towards the earth. Down and down it went, and down and down they went. They watched from above as her weapon connected to the ground, sending a rippling shockwave throughout all of Artaeum followed by an eerie silence. And then, the ground began to split.

It started small; groaning, creaking as Nirn reacted to the intrusion of a holy weapon nestled in her core. And then the dirt quivered and shifted, and like two great oceans the field shook and opened up. Miraak skimmed so fast over the battlefield everything was a blur. Little shards of the ice and snow left his maw to dance back on the wind to whip her in the face. Nirn gave an almighty moan as Artaeum broke further, a wide fault opening up. But she could see little islands where the grass and rock remained; the closest one held Ayera and her Nord companion. Another they passed supported a confused handful of Dremora. So the spear...the spear had spared their allies? Had it somehow understood her plea? Thalmor soldiers were being swallowed up by the dark, endless chasm, their screams rising into the night.  
  
“_Hey!_” A shout from her side snapped her attention away from the scene below.   
“What the fuck—is that a gryphon?” She yelled, startled by the presence of another being seated on a flying animal.   
“Watch out!” The figure was yelling, looking frantically between her and the space in front of her. “Watch out!”   
“What do you mean-?” Tharya followed the gryphon rider’s pointing sword to what lay just ahead of her: a huge, flaming boulder hurtling through the air. “Miraak!” She screamed. “Look out-”

* * *

Erador felt the earth shift below him at the same exact time everyone else did. Veros had been fighting close by, and they found each other’s frantic looks through the throng of confused Thalmor. What was happening? Behind him a frightened howl went up. A howl that sounded too close to a wolf for his comfort. Another gurgle from the underbelly of Nirn and this time it nearly threw him off his feet. A gold dragon flew dangerously close overhead, spewing a trail of ice straight down the middle of the battlefield. One of the Dragon Priests—Morokei, was his name?—was not far to Erador’s left, and pointing upwards with his staff he yelled:  
“_Incoming!_” 

Above them, burning a streak through the sky was a flaming trebuchet projectile, a huge rock. But it wouldn’t land on them, Erador noticed as he, Veros and Serana scrambled away. It was already beginning to arch downwards towards the ground. Nirn shook again and this time he could hear screams and see a massive rift breaking open, cutting the field in two.   
“What the hell is happening?” Erador yelled to Morokei, but the old man didn’t answer. If he did, it was lost to the explosion as the projectile hit—but not them, and not the ground.

A devastated shriek rose and there was a body flying through the air. A rider knocked off. The boulder had left a gaping hole in the gold dragon’s side, shrapnel burning through its wing, hammering the beast right out of flight and sending it spiraling and kicking...right for the ever-growing fault in the field.  
“That’s Miraak!” Veros shouted from Erador’s side. “That’s Miraak!” His wings clipped the sides of the forming cliffs, the crunch and snap of bones meeting their ears, and a second figure, this one human, went tumbling through the air like an arrow after him. 

On all sides, Thalmor soldiers were teetering and falling into the same abyss as the ground opened up below them. Erador spotted others: Ayera, thank the gods, and their friends. Sanguine wasn’t far, clinging to Jyggalag as the ground around their feet fell away. Cara and her Miraak were nowhere in sight.   
  


“You fools!” Someone behind them crowed. Together they turned to see Elenwen, blood splattering her sunken features, a sword looking much too heavy for her thinning arm. “You fools! What have you done?” The First Emissary staggered towards them, watching the others in her army fall away.   
“Surrender, and the rest of your men will be spared!” Veros barked back, blade at the ready. Elenwen husked out a grating laugh, tossing the idea aside with a flick of her head.   
“This battle is far from over, Dragonborns,” she hissed. “I have half my forces waiting still. You cannot hope to defeat them!”   
“We can hope to do whatever we damn please,” Serana snipped.   
“You,” Elenwen ignored the vampire in favor of pointing her sword directly for Erador, “you are the one Ondolemar spoke of. He said you were a traitor.”   
“Then he spoke true to his mind, at least. What do you want, Elenwen?” Erador crept forward, balancing his sword in his hand. The ambassador didn’t reply. She watched him draw closer and closer, wetting her lips, looking up and down at him like a rabid dog. Her hair was thin and wiry, her eyes cloudy, her skin pale and ashen. “Was the blood ritual truly worth it? Look what you’ve done to yourself.” He prodded. “You sacrificed all those mages just to get ahead, and in the end it didn’t even work. Hermaeus Mora could destroy you even caged up.” The Altmer shook his head. “No one is going to benefit from Time being broken like this. You should’ve known that before diving in headfirst. Surrender, Elenwen.” He was so close he could hear her breathing, ragged and heavy. “Give it up. You’re going to lose.”

The First Emissary glared at him, leaning on her sword like a cane before lifting it with both skeletal hands.  
“I,” she whispered, “will _ never _ surrender to _ you_. Do you hear me, traitor?” She lifted the sword, charging at him, “never!” And just as he raised his blade to block the attack a knife flung from over his shoulder buried itself deep in Elenwen’s throat, spurting blood into his eyes. She dropped writhing to the ground, choking, eyes wide with terror. All the world seemed to grow quiet and still for a moment, and before them, as the First Emissary breathed her last, a smoky black mass of eyes billowed into being, hundreds upon hundreds of yellow goat eyes slowly opening from their scale-like lids, blinking languidly at them. Slow, slithering tentacles snuck out from behind the eyes. They snaked their way to Elenwen as the grass and dirt below her began to crumble.   
“I should, hmmm...._thank you _ for this, hmm, gift.” Hermaeus Mora drawled as he lifted Elenwen’s motionless body. The earth below tumbled into the abyss anyway, opening up a new fault where she had lain. “She has proved...most _ troublesome _ to me. Tell the First, his, hmmm, debts are...paid.She will make...a _ fine _ champion.”

  
  


Nirn broke their trance as Mora had disappeared by beginning the slow, painful process of knitting herself back together, pulling each side of the battlefield towards one another. In between them there were many odd columns of rock and dirt stretching upwards from the bowels of the earth to hold their friends and allies up. Erador could only stare at where Elenwen and the Daedric Prince had just been as Veros bent to retrieve her throwing knife, wiping it off on her cloak. He’d encountered Hermaeus Mora before strictly because necessity had demanded it, to obtain the Elder Scroll Ayera had used at the Time Wound. But who was _ the First _ and what did Mora mean by _ his debts are paid? _ Why was Elenwen becoming his _ champion? _

  
Beneath their boots the soil quivered and groaned as it moved, and finally collided with its other half like two continents crashing into each other. They all lurched to keep their footing, moving slowly towards one another. Stepping gingerly over bodies. The field had suddenly gone quiet; the clashing of weapons and bursts of magic were gone. When Veros looked, she saw more Dremora exiting the forest across from them, looking confused at the abandoned and destroyed Thalmor camp, one trebuchet remaining and in splinters. Had the crack really stretched that far?   
“_Paidir_,” Vahlok was jogging up to Morokei, holding his staff in one bloodied hand. It was then that Veros realized she hadn’t seen Miraak or Tharya come up from the opened jaw of the earth. She had only seen them fall in.   
“Ӕsa be praised,” Morokei breathed, eyes following where Vahlok was pointing a little ways away. Two strangers in gleaming silver armor were hovering over a pair of crumpled, burnt and dirty bodies, pressing healing spells to their skin. There was a flash of white and a spear lying nearby. Could that be...?   
  
“You,” a new voice interrupted her thoughts and her feet as she drifted towards where Morokei and Vahlok were going. She turned to come face to face with another Altmer seated atop a winged, four-legged animal, dappled grey and brown in color. The rider wasn’t talking to just her; Erador and Ayera were here as well, Jyggalag approaching, as well as the other Dragon Priests. “Which of you is Dragonborn?” The man asked. Ayera motioned to herself and Veros.   
“We are,” the snowy haired elf twisted around to gesture towards who Veros could only assume were Tharya and Miraak, “as are they. There are two more in the tower.” The Altmer nodded to the companion on his left, seated on the same animal, and she took to the skies with a powerful thrust of her wings. “Why?” Ayera eyed the knight suspiciously. “Who are you?”   
  
The armored man gestured to himself and around the now-dead battlefield for his companions.   
“We are the gryphon knights of Summerset,” he said sternly, “we are the Welkynar.”


	32. By the Edge of Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.

The first scents to fill her nose were ones of blood. Blood and gore, the field was thick with it. Corpses. Beating and dead hearts alike. It made her spine squirm under her skin. Ash, too; something burnt. The air crackled with magic, but it was soft, welcoming magic—healing spells? And she felt that magic brush against her shifting skin—that was all it took.  
  
With an animalistic noise Tharya shot up, locking one hand around the neck of whoever had taken it upon themselves to heal her. Her nails grew longer, darker, shifting into claws, her jaw morphing forward and teeth becoming sharpened scythes. There was an arch in her back, an ache in her bones. She needed this. The Altmer’s pulse quickened. Fright. She wasn’t concerned with his blood; she was no vampire. But she was concerned with the changing of her body, the sweet, final release of stretching herself into a form she hadn’t taken in too long. She could feel, through the twang of pain (how long had it been since she had given in?) that the world around her was different. The earth smelled of fresh blood and life, and lives taken. Her claws dug into the Altmer’s neck—

And before her transformation could be completed, something, someone hit her bluntly on the back of the head, and the world went dark.

* * *

She woke once to the bleary howls of another werewolf. Her pack? No, she didn’t have a pack. There were strained, yelling voices and someone gripping her hand, but she was lying down. Still in the bloody grass, in the sweet, pungent smell of bloody grass. But she woke only briefly, and as the voices rose and the howls continued she slipped back into unconsciousness.

* * *

When Tharya finally came to her body felt heavy. Weighed down by something indescribable. She was not in the same spot she had initially woken up and choked the Altmer in, but maybe close.   
“She’s awake,” a voice said from her left, a calm but thickly accented voice. There was the rustle of robes, movement around her. “_Ahtlahzey? _ Can you hear me?” The voice asked, a blurry hand waving down at her. Miraak? No, this was too high to be him. The skin too pale. The blood not as warm.   
“Give her space, Zahkriisos,” someone else said, approaching from the right. She blinked once, twice, a thousand times until her vision was clear enough to see Zahkriisos crouching beside her, Vahlok on her right.

She gulped in the air like a drowning woman, sitting up and making the world drift sideways. She had to get away from that scent. Oh gods, she could feel it coming again, the transformation, a muted, strangled howl rising in her throat and clawing its way out. Zahkriisos took a cautious step away.  
“It’s happening again!” He called out. No, no, no, she couldn’t do this, not with everyone around, not with Miraak...gods, the way he had looked at her last time, she couldn’t make him that _ scared _ again, but the smell was everywhere and on everyone, stealing her senses and her wits one by one until-   
“No, it isn’t.” Miraak shoved Zahkriisos aside with a bandaged arm and knelt stiffly beside Tharya, wrapping his arms tightly around her. Tight enough that her hands were trapped against her chest and she couldn’t move. Tight enough so that she was forced away from the call of her beast blood. When she inhaled it was _ him _ who smelled like ash and char, like burnt skin, like raw flesh. “Easy, _ dii fil_. Easy.” He was trying to calm her but she was already moving away from blood; what was wrong with _ him? _   
  
“Miraak,” she croaked into his shoulder, inhaling his scent one more time for safe measure. “Miraak, you’re hurt.” That much she could tell without having to see him. His heartbeat was strained. Tired. His body felt weaker than she knew it to be. “What’s wrong?” No, she did not have a pack, but he was as close as she would ever get. Carefully the Atmoran removed his arms, leaning back on his feet, not entirely sure if he should let go of her yet. Part of his face was blackened by soot and matted blood; the corresponding arm was out of her view, covered by what seemed to be the torn-off sleeves of his once-white robes. But there was just enough pink flesh surrounded by dead black skin left uncovered to know what lay beneath. His hand was mottled with angry red marks and welts, his neck splattered with blood.   
“You don’t remember?” He asked quietly. Her eyes kept moving. The most distinct wound was the one in his side, tearing a hole clean through the fabric of his clothes. It looked as if it had been healed but only partially. It was still a second-degree burn, flesh torn, pebbled with the indent of what looked like little rocks, now pried off his skin. His breath was rattly and she watched his ribs press against what was left of his right side.   
  
“She’s awake?”   
“Yes, sir.”   
“Good.” A pause. “Bring the other two around. Dawn is nearly upon us.”   
“Miraak,” Tharya ignored the approaching voices to reach for the First Dragonborn’s hand. He let her. If she focused her magicka, focused on him, she could feel...   
“Don’t,” he wrenched his fingers away, “don’t do that, _ dii fil._” The searing pain she had felt for just that moment danced up her arm and dissipated, earning a shocked, stifled noise from the back of her throat.   
“You’re in pain.”   
“_Geh_,” he acknowledged, squaring himself before rising to his feet with a concealed wince. “As is everyone else.” She wanted to scoff at that, frown, try again, tell him. _ But your pain is immense. _ Miraak extended a hand to her without looking at her, trusting that she wouldn’t pull the same trick. She didn’t. Tharya grabbed his forearm and stood with its help, swaying on her feet a little.   
  
“You are the Dragonborn of this timeline, yes? I am Loralda, one of the four Welkynar. Your Psijic friend requested our aid.” The woman speaking was tall, strong, but aging. Her white hair losing some of its vibrance and eyes beginning to sag.   
“Welkynar?” Tharya repeated, squinting against Loralda’s blinding silver armor. “Like the...the gryphon people?” She remembered somewhere she had seen a gryphon, but when? Where?   
“Yes.” Loralda nodded staunchly.   
“Where’s Quaranir?”   
“He is here,” the woman gestured behind her.   
“I didn’t see him in battle.”   
“No. He did not fight.” 

Slowly Tharya looked around the battlefield. It was...empty. Littered with corpses but no sign of life; and all these dead bodies, however numerous, could in no way amount to the numbers the Thalmor had beforehand. She looked at Miraak’s burns again, his golden eyes dull and exhausted. What happened? Loralda narrowed her eyes.   
“Obviously you are...still recovering from your ordeal. The moon has set,” she looked up to the dusky sky, “mostly. We will wake up your friends, and soon we will begin our assault on Mnemoli.”

When Tharya looked, Loralda was right. The blood moon was gone. She remembered that much at least, a raging red moon hanging above her head. But as the Welkynar knight walked away her eyes fanned out to the rest of the area. Their friends were...here. Some of them were asleep—Cara and Miraak were leaning against one another, eyes closed, a leather bag clutched in the woman’s arms. Ayera, Erador and their friends were sitting in a loose circle, some resting, some tending to their wounds with Morokei’s help. Ahzidal was standing not far off, examining Ceporah Tower. And the first shreds of light were climbing over the trees. They were standing on the edge of dawn.

“How do you feel?” Zahkriisos was beside her again, reaching for her wrist to feel her pulse, letting a hand fall over her forehead. “No fever.” He waited another moment. “Your pulse is still quick, but much slower than what it was. That’s good.” The Priest nodded.  
“Zahkriisos is trained in medicine,” Vahlok explained from Miraak’s side, smiling wearily. Tharya gave a light, uncaring shrug. She felt too weak to do anything about anything.   
“Yes, and I would prescribe you more rest before trying anything, but...” he looked at Loralda and the other three Welkynar. One polishing their sword, another with his gryphon. “It seems our _ friends _ have something else in mind.”   
“The Break cannot be allowed to continue,” Miraak grunted although his voice lacked conviction, “Mnemoli must be dealt with-”   
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard your spiel before, _ First Mage._” Zahkriisos cut in. “Sit down for a while, both of you. I’m sure these gryphon-tamers will let us know when we are needed.”

Neither of them sat as told, standing together on weak and tired legs. Miraak was watching the sky in silence. Tharya was trying to rub the dried blood and dirt off her spear.  
“What is the last thing you remember, _ dii lokaal?_” The Dragon Priest asked quietly after a long time. Stretching fingers of murky dawn light were crawling over the treetops.   
“I remember calling for you.” Tharya replied. “I remember an explosion, and...not much after that.”   
“That is all?” He looked bewildered. How much time had she lost?   
“What happened?” The Atmoran inhaled slowly, itching at the matted and crusted blood in his hair. He recounted to her their flight, the glyph and her spear, the huge crack in the earth it had opened. He told her of the Thalmor forces being swallowed up completely by it. He showed her the wound in his side and recalled the trebuchet hitting him, sending them both into the dark abyss. And then, looking first at her spear, he said she had saved him, pulled him up out of the never-ending trench basked in the same golden light she had been when they saved the Arch of Solitude. But she didn’t remember that, either. So he went on; Erador had killed Elenwen only to have her swallowed up by Hermaeus Mora. Ondolemar had met his end by Cara and _ ziinmah_’s wrath in the library as it burned.   
  
“And shortly after the earth closed the Welkynar came,” he gestured to the four Altmer, “you and the other _ vuhiik _ , I do not remember their names, you began to transform. You _ did _ transform.” She didn’t miss the shudder that racked his spine. “It took all of us to sedate you. How’s your head?” Errant fingers touched the bump on the back of her skull. “The others nearly changed again but the Welkynar put them under, and said we would have to wait until the moon had set to deal with Mnemoli.”

Across the field by the Welkynar, she saw two sluggish men standing up, their faces familiar. Farkas and Vilkas? Tharya almost called out to them but they couldn’t be from this timeline...Quaranir hadn’t called anyone from this timeline. Vilkas looked dejected and irritated, and Farkas seemed bleary. As they gathered themselves the four gryphon knights were approaching with long, silver chains in their hands. Loralda motioned and called for everyone else to join them. Cara and Miraak jolted rudely awake. Once they were all gathered, looking uncertainly amongst each other, Loralda rattled the chain in her hand.  
“This. This is what we will use to bring Mnemoli down to us.”   
“_Down?_” Sanguine echoed. Tharya hadn’t even seen him there. “What, to kill us all?”   
“We have no other options. There is neither time nor resources to pursue other methods. You,” Loralda’s light eyes fell on Tharya now, “your actions did not break Time, but they contributed to it. You are not to blame; this is your timeline?”   
“Yes.”   
“And yours, Reborn?” She looked to Miraak, who nodded. “Then you will have to be the ones to end it. With your spear—you must pierce Mnemoli. He will not withstand the power of a divinely blessed weapon.”   
“_He?_” Veros asked.   
“Yes. It has never happened, but if Breaks are allowed to continue,” there was a different Welkynar talking now, “it is theorized that the Magna-Ge, all of them, take on some humanoid form. Once they are strong enough.”   
“Creating a more direct link to them and the human world,” blond Miraak mused quietly, nodding his head.

“Yes. Now divide yourselves into four groups. We must act quickly and precisely.”

They did as Loralda asked, and then each group was assigned a Welkynar who approached them with a gleaming chain.   
“Form lines.” They did, behind each respective gryphon knight.   
“Hey! Everyone remember what I said about drinks being on me?” Tharya called to the others. A few smiles graced their faces. “Good.” Loralda shouted something in Aldmeris and in unison the Welkynar shifted, readying themselves, beginning to swing the ends of their chains in wide revolutions at their sides. Another shout, and then Loralda hurled the end of her chain straight up into the sky with a grunt. Each Welkynar followed suit, the links expanding beyond reason. 

  
A pulse of blue light nearly knocked them all off their feet. Then came a second and a third nearly simultaneously, enough to make the trees crack and grass flatten. The fourth came and blinded them before the chain in their hands suddenly went taut.   
“Hold fast!” Loralda yelled. The Welkynar steeled themselves. Something was cried out in Atmoran and the Solstheim Priests replied in a single, guttural voice. And then: “ _ Pull! _”

The first yank was enough to strain arms and backs, but once they gave Mnemoli the bait they couldn’t let go. The star fought them with triple the strength, but the chains had slung around it and they _ would _ force it down. There was no question about it. The only question was how many of them would still be standing when it came.   
“Pull!” Another pull on the chains. “Pull!” Another. “Pull!” Another. “Pull!” Another. Soon they were moving all at their own paces, as much as they could. The Welkynar were wrenching the chains down link by link, feeding it back to the lines of Dragonborns, Psijics, and Daedric Princes. "Pull!" The Welkynar in front of Tharya shouted, her voice nearly lost under the stifling magic. And they did. Together, pulling as hard as each of them could, the chains went taut and Mnemoli shuddered. "Pull! Pull!" 

At the end of the chain just beside her, with Cara at the front, Zahkriisos was planting his feet in the dirt. Across the loose circle was Ayera with Erador and their friends behind her. And to Tharya's right was Veros, Serana, Sanguine, one of the Welkynar, a few Psijcs, and Ahzidal. _ The four Dragonborns, _ she thought to herself, _ the four Dragonborns that Time brought together. _

"It's working!" Erador cried. 

"Hold steady!" Jyggalag shouted back from behind her. "Put your back into it, Yokudan!" Was Miraak the one at the end of their chain?

“Put _ your _ back into it, Daedra!” Miraak screamed back. The chain shifted and bit at the soft flesh of Tharya’s palms but she was determined to hold on—right up until the Welkynar in front of her let go. She looked frantically to the others and the three remaining gryphon knights were doing the same, stepping away from their charges.   
“What the fuck!” She screamed to the Altmer.   
“You heard Loralda!” The woman shouted back. “It has to be you!” So just like that, the Welkynar were done?

Mnemoli still lingered in the sky but definitely looked closer than before. His blue light was blocking out the top of Ceporah Tower. And she could barely feel her face, hands or arms anymore; they’d gone numb, moving with a mind independent of her body.   
“Pull!” Jyggalag roared. “Pull!” They pulled. “Pull! Carry your weight!” Now Tharya was the one at the front, and Cara beside her, Veros, Ayera across. Four women straining every muscle to save the [world.](https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v%3D0WMYL6HuUoI&sa=D&ust=1586128340456000&usg=AFQjCNGknqqzu_iUCsVwGe1qjD3phZBzUA)

She couldn’t watch Mnemoli. He was blinding. The closer to earth he got, the worse the pressure in her head and ears got, the more she felt lightweight. The more she stared at her hands to make sure they were still connected to the chain, because they didn’t even feel like a part of her body anymore. Behind them, trees flattened and broke. Another foot, another foot, another foot. Down came Mnemoli. A horrible wind struck up, biting at their eyes, drying their lips and whipping at robes and clothes and hair. And then the Welkynar started pulling others out. Erador went first. Tharya couldn’t see who else from the other lines.

The process was slow, painful. Each ally taken away made her tremble, her shoulders strain, her elbows stretch. Her fingers went through flashes of pain and cramping and numbness. Her knees were locked, frozen in place, and her spine ached. One of the seven Psijics who had helped them was removed, and someone behind her shouted to relieve the pain and didn’t stop. Another set of hands taken away; Jyggalag. Mnemoli was so close she could feel his heat and magic against her face. Had they really pulled him all the way? When she managed to spare a glance around her there were only four left on all chains, the Welkynar standing by and ushering people off. And then three. Loralda and the knights went about securing the chains to the ground somehow, with spikes or runes or magic she couldn’t tell. She didn’t need to know. And then two. She realized now the shouting was coming from Miraak, who had turned his back on Mnemoli and slung the chain around his torso, his boots digging deep muddy trenches in the soft ground. And then one on the other three chains. And then they were alone.

Mnemoli was so close now, so close to the ground she almost felt he was taunting her. Could she go the next few feet, the _ last _ few feet? Could she hold on long enough? Would the numbness in her entire body win, or the pounding in her head, or her throbbing heart? Would she sacrifice all the progress they had made?

** _No._ **

“You! You!” The Welkynar shoved her shoulders. Her body was so locked into position she almost didn’t feel it. “Go! _ Now! _” With little ceremony the Altmer tore her off the chain and it jerked dangerously forward, dragging Miraak forward with it. Her eyes widened, ready to reattach herself, but the Atmoran turned so the chain was further wrapped around his body, eyes squeezed shut. Clenching his legs, jutting his heels into the grass, he held firm.

_ Gods, I love you so much. _

Against her better judgment she waded towards him.

"Are you sure you can hold this?" She shouted over the shrieking wind, reaching out to grab his face under the Magna-Ge's suppressive magic. Miraak’s eyes flew open. His hair whipped at his eyes and face, robes snapping and dancing frantically; his jaw was clenched, body nearly horizontal with the sheer force he was pulling with. 

“You still don't realize," he yelled back, an odd smile forming on his dry lips, "I would hold the world on my shoulders if you only asked it of me, Tharya." For just a moment her features softened, and she leaned around his taut arms to kiss the space between his brows. 

"You already hold enough."

With that she turned away, stepping out of his sight towards Mnemoli’s blinding core with her spear in her hand. He allowed the chain to pull him forward another foot, earning himself more slack to wind around his arms. His palms burned, the chain pinching and tearing his skin in some places, but he was nothing, not a single thing, if he wasn’t determined. And knowing Tharya was in the midst of it all he steeled himself further. _ Bormahu,_ he prayed in the back of his head to that neglectful Father, closing his eyes, _ Bormahu, see her through_. And selfishly, knowing he had everything to live for now: _ Bormahu, see _ ** _me_ ** _ through. _

Tharya fought for each step under Mnemoli’s oppressive eye. It was like wading through the thickest of swamps, cold, hardening sludge weighing her feet. But she kept going. She was doing this. She was doing this to see their friends safely back home; she was doing this to see Quaranir's sacrifices and work was not in vain; she was doing this to remember the way Miraak's arms had materialized around her eternities ago in the ritual circle when Life had returned breath to his lungs; she was doing this to save her family and the countless others who depended on her, whether they knew it or not. She was not doing it to save the world. And as the sun rose higher and higher, peeking over the forest just enough to watch her raise her spear in defense of the world, its warmth and glow blocked out by Mnemoli’s swirling blue flares, she felt the blood in her body rise. Her eyes streaming a wispy gold, her veins matching, she marched forward, and pressed the tip of her spear into the soft, magical underbelly of the raging Magna-Ge until it burst.

For _ life._

* * *

When she woke up next, the birds were singing. Chirping. The grass felt stiff but warm under her body. Above, the sun hovered bright and full. There was no one around. No Cara, no Miraak; no Ayera or Erador; no Veros. No Sanguine or Jyggalag. No Welkynar.

“They all disappeared when you killed Mnemoli,” Quaranir said from her side. “Instantly. I regret we didn’t get to say goodbye—I suppose...there’s no way to reach the others now, with the Fractures sealed.” Tharya groaned as she sat up, putting a palm gently to her pounding forehead. The world spun for a moment and her stomach churned. She rolled over just in time. “Yeah, that happened to me too.” The Altmer chortled softly. “I think it has something to do with Time being restored. We’ve grown so used to it being off-kilter.” The Nord laid herself carefully back in the grass. Her back hurt. Her knees hurt. Her elbows hurt. Her hands, most of all, were in agony. Her neck was too tight to move or look around. 

“Where’s Miraak?” She croaked finally. Quaranir made a gesture just behind her. When she looked she could see the Atmoran’s body and tattered, bloody white robes—though they were hardly white any longer—lying face-down in the grass. “Alive?”  
“He’ll be fine.” Quaranir looked at her for a moment. “I can’t carry you both to the infirmary in the tower.” A bitter smile crossed his face. “I’m not sure they’d even let you in. You burned their library down, after all, and I helped.” The Psijic reached for a leather bag and two Elder Scrolls that were out of her sight, and placed them by her hand. “I believe Miraak, other Miraak, was planning on giving these to you. He saved them from the fire.”   
“What...what are they?”   
“The Star Charts, the Book of the Damned, the Brother’s Prophecy and the Starless Prophecy.” He listed them off.   
“Why are you giving them to me?”   
He shrugged lightly. “When the Psijics want them again, they will come get them. But for now I think them safer in your hands.” The Altmer stood and brushed off his robes.   
“Quaranir,” Tharya groaned, “what will you do?” But he only smiled.   
“Why don’t you rest, Dragonborn?” He leaned over her, blocking out the sunlight for a moment. “You deserve it.”

“Yeah,” she agreed in a slurred, tired voice, eyes fluttering closed, “yeah, I think I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, wow y'all we did it! this fic really kicked my ass so i'm planning to take a short break from writing, at least for two weeks or so. however, the next fic i'm planning to work on is called As Summer was Just Beginning (though the title may change) and it's for Dragon Age, since i haven't written for them in a while! there WILL be multiple epilogues to this story (Blue Star Break) for all the different characters, once/if they are written by said character's owners. 
> 
> as always, i am so SO happy to see people enjoying my writing and really glad for y'alls support throughout it all. this fic DOES mark the end of the dragonborn era series (most likely), but don't think there won't be more miraak & tharya content down the road, i have some cool things planned! and of course, if you want to see anything specific from them or have cool ideas, drop a comment (dragonmark was based entirely off a fan comment left by some lovely soul on apocrypha). in the next few days i also plan to come back and do some editing on Break of Dawn and Sic Parvis Magna, as well as My Brother's Keeper to fix some continuity things and make them generally better. 
> 
> thank you all again for sticking with me! i'll see you all soon! :)


	33. Epilogue 1: Tharya & Miraak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya & miraak's epilogue, written by me!

_ When Miraak woke the whole day had passed by and it was night. He woke to stars, thousands, millions of them, winking and blinking down at him. The sky was a soft, dark blue with tiny sparkling eyes and a supple, pale moon. _

_  
_ _ He could’ve cried. He missed the night sky. _

_ “I was wondering when you’d wake up,” Tharya put a hand gently on his hair and he groaned, loud, pained, tired. The grass and warm ground was a comforting enough bed for now. “How do you feel?” Miraak craned his head to look at her, too exhausted to feel relief when he saw her eyes were clear and beautiful like silver lakes again. But he smiled. _ _  
_ _ “Dehydrated.” _ _  
_ _ “I wasn’t expecting that one, but I do have water.” She handed him a flask as he levered his aching body up and he drank it without hesitation, spilling the rest over his face and scalp. “Don’t save any for me or anything.” _ _  
_ _ “I’ll refill it,” he croaked, handing it back and lying sideways to put his damp head in her lap. He’d just woken up, and yet all he wanted to do was sleep again. “Where are the others?” Tharya reached out to prod the little campfire she’d made, sparks jumping from the flames. _ _  
_ _ “I think they disappeared as soon as Mnemoli was done,” she mumbled forlornly. Miraak felt a frown etch itself into his forehead. _ _  
_ _ “Just like that?” It sounded childish, but it saddened him. His ziinmah, the elves, the masked woman—Veros, he thought fondly, remembering her conversation with him in the forge—and all the Dragon Priests. His brother, his father, even Ahzidal...all gone, without a second thought. “I suppose you won’t be buying drinks.” _

_ Tharya sighed heavily. It saddened her too. _ _  
_ _ “No. I suppose not.” _

* * *

Solitude was soaking. The cobblestone streets had turned into shallow trenches, the doors had remained closed, the tavern the only true place of vivacity during the storm. It was not an uncommon sight to see Solitude gone silent in the depths of spring, while warm rain turned the air humid and sticky, and evening thunderstorms groaned by overhead. 

Torygg had been staring out the window for, Shor’s bones, he couldn’t remember how long. But he had been listening, oh yes. He’d listened to the whole thing. The trip to Solstheim, the daring rescue from Apocrypha and the stay in the Argonian Assemblage; the dreaded Dragonmarks, the return to Oblivion, the restoration of the bluffs; the Dawnguard, the vampires, the divine bow, the wreckage of Castle Volkihar; and of course he knew the overthrowing of Ulfric, though Elisif and the others did not believe that part of the story. He had listened to the events of the Blue Star Break be recounted to him from this bard girl and finally, after a long day of storytelling, she had fallen silent, her hazel-amber eyes trained on him.

  
“Lilika, yes?” Torygg turned his head finally, chin balanced on his fingers. His back ached from sitting but his pacing had made Elisif’s thin brows knit together. The swell of her stomach was growing more by the day, and it looked even larger when she was sitting. Everything seemed to worry her now.  
“Yes, your Majesty.” Lilika replied. The more he looked at her the more she looked like Tharya; she had the same nose but a rounder face, bigger eyes. Sandy-colored hair. Torygg waved a hand dismissively as he stood from the throne, dropping Elisif’s fingers from his own.  
“Please, call me Torygg. Your sister is a great friend of mine.” He stepped down from the little dais and clasped his hands together behind his back, approaching the girl. In the two years since his revival he’d grown used to life with one arm and tried to avoid the clunky wooden prosthetic made for him at all costs. But today was one day he’d suffer with it.

"You and I are the only ones in this room who know what really happened." Torygg said quietly, staring at her. _ You and I are the only ones unaffected by the Dragon Break from two years ago. _ "I trust every word you said." Lilika squinted at him and then nodded. “But that cannot be all.”  
“I swear it is, your Majesty,” Lilika said. “I don’t know where my sister or Miraak is. If I did, don’t you think I would tell you?” Her eyes grew distant. “You aren’t the only one who wants them back.” Torygg rubbed his hands against his face and temples, sighing into his wrists. 

"She's been gone for _ two years. _" He said lowly. "The Thalmor have noticed. Our spies say they're gathering forces on Summerset."

"What for?" Lilika asked. Torygg looked at her gravely but didn't reply. Outside the rain whipped and howled at the Blue Palace, pelting the windows and casting the throne room in grey light.  
“Your sister has an eye for war.” Aldis, who was standing to the side of the throne beside Elisif, nodded and hummed in agreement. “She was a battlemage for Ulfric Stormcloak during the Civil War, but she called and organized many of the later battles that led them to victory. And she organized a nighttime attack on Solitude during the New Life Rebellion. That genius will be invaluable to me should the Thalmor choose to start another war,” Torygg explained loud enough for everyone else to hear. 

"Here is what we know." Torygg held his hands up. "Since I have returned from Sovngarde,” Elisif squirmed at those words, “your sister and the Atmoran—Miraak—have sealed a Dragon Break. After doing so, they were banished from Artaeum, along with Quaranir and several other members of the Psijic Order. They returned to Skyrim, only to find Tharya’s position as Arch-Mage had been usurped at the College of Winterhold. So they left, and traveled to Whiterun, to buy a house—I assume they settled there." Torygg looked to her for confirmation. Lilika nodded. "They spent the winter in the new house. You kept contact with them?" 

"When the snow was bearable," the bard shrugged. "But they were there." 

"They were there. Good. Now, come early spring, they're gone. No word, no letter. No forewarning. They're gone and Balgruuf sends out search parties for weeks, every Jarl is combing their land for the Dragonborns. But no one can find them. Not even the girl who left Winterhold with them--Sofie, was her name? Not even she knows, and not even your brother Lofrek who lived with them. They disappeared off the face of Nirn." Lilika seemed to measure his words before nodding along. 

"Yes. That sounds right." 

"Then what are we missing?" Elisif asked from the throne. “Aldis, I know Tharya is your friend—have you heard from her?” She twisted to look at the guard captain.  
“No, your Majesty. You’d be the first to know if she wrote.”

Lilika shrugged. “I wish I had an answer for you, your Majesties.”

It was just then the door to the Palace was flung open, clanging loudly and making them all jolt. Lilika’s stories had set them all in a trance—heroism, romance, battle, what more could one ask for?—and Falk got to his feet while he stretched his back. The rain was almost quieter outside than it was as it assaulted the Palace’s stones. A bolt of lightning lit the room and they watched as a soggy soldier clanked his way up the stairs to the throne. He bowed respectfully to Torygg and Elisif before making his way to Captain Aldis, leaning over to whisper something in the man's ear. Aldis's eyes went wide. The soldier straightened, hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

"Well? What is it?" Lilika asked impatiently. Standing, Aldis marched towards Torygg, leaning in to his ear to whisper. The High King gaped, looking to the guard captain for confirmation before staring at Lilika again.

"Very well," he said aloud, "bring them inside."


	34. Epilogue 2: Veros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written by TrailtotheTruth! thank you so much for letting me have veros join in on the fun, and thanks for writing an epilogue for her!

The light was utterly blinding. There was nothing like it that Veros had ever seen before, and someone was prying her away from those great chains that the four Dragonborns had pulled, and Tharya- Tharya- was _ alone _ out there.

No, she wasn’t alone. Through the blinding light, as she was being dragged backwards - maybe she was screaming, the wound on her shoulder ripping open again, she saw Miraak embracing her. She remembered a day at the forge. The gold of Miraak’s eyes. Tharya pretending not to listen. A private conversation, overheard, she could have gone anywhere else but fate had drawn her to those two Dragonborns and there were tears slipping down her face as her fingers curled into claws as she was dragged away from them.

She was deposited into somebody’s arms. The wind roared at her ears. Everything was so, so far away: she couldn’t see them anymore. She couldn’t see them anymore, and then everything went white, and she felt like she was fading away, being pulled up, up, up, she was waking _ up-_

There was snow under her. Someone’s arms wrapped around her. The air was unnaturally still, and cold. It was quiet, so quiet, that for a moment, Veros thought she might’ve gone deaf. But no, there was the sound of snow falling, and someone’s breath fluttering, and the sound of her own heart racing as she looked up at the clear night sky and saw that Mnemoli was gone.

They’d done it. The Break was sealed.

She was…

She was home.

Veros turned slightly, but she knew whose arms she’d been dumped into. Her shoulder screamed in pain as she reached up, unhooking the mask she’d never taken off, for anyone, not after she defeated Alduin, and she let the snow kiss her face.

Her eyes dropped from the stars to the vampire sprawled next to her, reaching for her even in unconsciousness, snow scattered in her short black hair. Serana. Serana had come for her, even after… even after everything. Even after Veros had left her alone, taken everything and disappeared into the wind, Serana had _ come for her. _

“Hey.” She shook the vampire gently, tapping her cheek. “Serana?”

The vampire stirred slowly, curling up towards Veros slightly, and the elf couldn’t help but let a smile curve her lips. That was cute. But as Serana opened her eyes, and beheld Veros’ face for the first time in all the times they’d worked together, the shock and then the pure _ joy _that lit up those yellow eyes was simply too much.

“You’re…” Serana hesitated, tracing every feature of Veros’ face. “Beautiful. You’re beautiful. _ Veros. _”

Veros prayed that she wasn’t wrong, that the feeling that stirred within her was the same that she’d seen between Tharya and Miraak before her friend had walked into that blinding storm, and with gentle, gentle movements, she took the vampire’s face in her hands, watching those bright eyes widen, the way Serana _ looked _at her-

“I’m sorry.” Veros murmured, leaning down to press her forehead to Serana’s. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

They were both frozen there for a long time, and she knew there were tears dripping off her face but she didn’t care. 

“They told me that you said there was no one who’d come for you.” Serana whispered, sitting up slightly, one hand still reaching out for Veros, settling on the woman’s arm. “You said to not even bother. I would’ve..” The vampire broke off with a sob. “Veros, I would’ve done anything to see you again.”

Veros could only stare in shock at the vampire. “You… You wanted to see me again? After everything?”

“I never stopped thinking of you.” Color flooded Serana’s cheeks suddenly, and the vampire looked away. Suddenly, Veros was reminded of the way that Tharya had looked at Miraak in the forge, how he had leaned into her. How she had looked at him before she walked into that star. That had been - love. 

The expression on her face must’ve been odd, because Serana frowned up at her, about to say something, and Veros held her close and kissed her simply because she could think of nothing else to do and nothing else to say to encompass how she loved, how she loved the woman who’d walked into the storm, how she loved the man who pulled the world its knees before him to save it, how she loved the vampire curled up in the snow with her who was kissing her back, fingers tangling in Veros’ long hair, how she loved, she loved, and for the first time in a very long time, Veros felt the weight of her mortal life weigh upon her, because she loved.

Serana’s hand fastened around her shoulder and Veros flinched, pulling back.

“You’re hurt,” the vampire whispered. There were tears in her eyes.

Veros only nodded, and then it was too much, all of it, the battle, the star, the weeks of trying to save the gods-damned world, and she held Serana close to her and sobbed.

* * *

The sun shone brightly down onto Solitude, gleaming against the bone of the spiked crown that rested on Veros’ brow. She was grasping Serana’s hands tightly in the shadow of the doorway, listening to the murmur of the crowd outside. She’d staked so much on this gathering, on the cooperation of Elisif and Tullius, calling in her debts, and now it was time.

So much had changed since she’d been summoned to another world to aid two Dragonborns. So much had changed. She was no longer scared, no longer hiding herself away from the world. She might have still considered herself a god, but no longer did she use it as a reason to isolate herself. No longer would she keep her treasure trove sequestered away. Because, now she had something to live for.

She’d seen what the world might come to. Seen it in blood and death and destruction. She wouldn’t let it happen to her world.

So she and Serana: they’d save it again.

Kissing the vampire - her _ wife _\- one last time, she turned away and stepped forward, through the doorway and into the light. 

“People of Skyrim.” Her voice was steady, firm, carrying across the courtyard. “I stand before you as the Dragonborn. I am the single most powerful being in our lands. I defeated Alduin, I brought the Stormcloaks to their knees, I have united you, I have saved you time and time again from threats you didn’t know even exist. It is not egotistical. It is simply fact. But I stand before you today to ask something of you.”

She paused. This is the part she feared. The part that will determine everything. “I have seen a future where the Thalmor stop at nothing to destroy us and split us apart. Not simply _ waiting _for us to divide, like they already are, but where they fall to blood magic, to ruin and desecration.” Veros watched their shifting faces. “All in the name of conquering. I have seen a future where Skyrim is dominated by the Thalmor, like many other lands in Tamriel.” She paused again. A roar rumbled over the hills, wingbeats carving the air apart. People gasped.

Three giant _ thumps _ resound. “These are my allies.” Veros said simply. She did not need to yell. Her voice carried. “Their names are Paarthurnax, Odahviing, and Durnehviir. They have pledged their loyalty to me. I have an armory with enough weapons to arm all of Skyrim - not the steel you are used to wielding, but weapons of ebony and dragonbone. I strike with the power of an army myself. I will not stand _ by _while the possibility of a future where we are dominated by the Thalmor exists. In fact-” Her voice raised, strengthened, the power of the Dragonborn curdling behind it- “I will not tolerate the Thalmor dominating Tamriel at all! There are other lands beyond us who have already fallen!”

There was nothing but silence. Pure, pure silence.

Veros let nothing but ice line her voice as she finally said. “I ask you to join me as I claim my rightful place as the Dragonborn Emperor. It is time for my line to return to the throne.”


	35. Epilogue 3: Cara & Miraak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written by thewolfwhowaited! thank you so much letting me borrow your characters and writing some scenes with me--i know you've been hella busy, but i appreciate it so much! :)

The College was in disarray after they landed in the middle of a lecture, covered in the blood, gore, sweat, and grime of battle.

Cara and Miraak embraced the second they got their bearings, making sure the other was alright, that this was over. They had done it. Tharya had done it.

Tears pricked at Cara’s eyes. They didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye to any of them. They were just…  _ gone _ .

Vilkas and Farkas had come back with them, not landed in Whiterun it seemed, though both men looked far worse for wear, Vilkas especially.

They were given the rooms they had stayed in the last time they had been at the College before winter set in, fresh clothes and shown to the baths, though Vilkas avoided everyone, especially Cara for the rest of the night.

* * *

Cara sat at her vanity, brushing out her still-damp hair, Miraak strode over to her, toweling off his own damp hair and gave her a gentle kiss.

She felt a surge in magic in her quarters, Miraak returning her questioning look as they both grabbed their divine weapons and went in search of the disturbance.

In Cara’s ‘public office’ where her garden and official desk was, stood a figure the pair had grown used to seeing frequently as of late.

The figure cleared his throat. “Master Direnni, I and the order has more than a few questions for you.” The Dragonborns relaxed.

“Quaranir,” she replied. “It’s good to see you.”

The other Altmer’s eyes flickered to Miraak. “We were also unaware you were in the possession of an Atmoran.”

Miraak’s eyes narrowed.

“He can leave any time he wants.”

“That’s ill advised. But that is a matter for another day. The Order has been concerned with a great many disturbances as of late, namely, that of the stars disappearing. A few hours ago a massive magical surge swept across all known planes, and since Dragonborns tend to attract all sorts of trouble, I thought it best to come to you.”

Cara crossed her arms. “To blame me, you mean. Like how the other Psijics blamed me for the Eye?”

He shook his head. “I knew that something like that would have happened eventually, it was only a matter of time. The others did not agree with me. But my question stands, did you have something to do with that explosion?”

“We both did.” She answered.

“Go on.”

“There was a Dragon Break.” Miraak said.

“I- excuse me?” The elf stuttered.

“Come, sit, you’re likely to be here a while.”

* * *

Cara told most of the tale of all they had been through over the last few weeks, Miraak interjecting every once in a while.

Quaranir had asked for a few pieces of parchment and some ink to write their account down, and before they were done he had a rather generous stack of parchment, covered front and back in the Altmer’s cramped Aldmeri script.

When she was finished, the Psijic mage shook his head.

“Such an account of a Dragon Break has never been written, that in itself is unprecedented. But one so large to effect paralleled times? To confirm the existence of parallel times? This is…this must be transcribed from my shorthand, and we want every possible detail, so you will be contacted again, likely by the council, brought to Artaeum so that they can hear your account first hand-“

“Quaranir, we will help you document it, but we’ve been through more then enough the last few weeks.”

The mage shook his head. “Very well. It will likely take a while to sort this information, illuminate and bind it into a tome. I will contact you both soon,” his eyes slid to Miraak. “Especially since you possess far more knowledge about Apocrypha, the Dragon Cult, and Atmora than we know.” The mage bowed his head, opened a portal, and disappeared.

“You know, I think I might have figured out how they do that.” Cara commented, a small smile on her lips as she glanced over to Miraak.

“Come, it is late.” He held his hand out to her, which she took without hesitation. Despite the small nap they had been afforded earlier, exhaustion had well and truly set in.

They settled in their large featherbed, Cara snuggling into Miraak’s side when he pulled her to lay on his chest.

“I don’t see how you can sleep like this.” She murmured into his bare skin. She felt his emotions shift, she was so tired and he was so close that she felt his as if they were her own.

He was silent for a time, to the point that Cara thought he might have fallen asleep, though she was nearly there herself.

“Having you here,” One of his arms wrapped a little tighter around her back, his other idly playing with the ends of her long hair, “It reminds me that I’m no longer in Apocrypha. That you’re real.”

She felt his embarrassment. Picking her head up to look at him better, he was staring at the ceiling, not looking at her. She brought a hand to his jaw, and his eyes flickered to her.

“You don’t have to hide this kind of thing from me, you know. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I hate that you can read me so well.”

She smiled at him. “You never tell me what you’re thinking, so I quite like it.”

“Perhaps I will… I will  _ try _ to be more open about what I am thinking, feeling. But only for you.”

She settled into him, her forehead gently pressed into the side of his neck, content.

“Goodnight my darling.”

“Goodnight,  _ dii lovaas _ .” 

* * *

“Are you feeling alright Vilkas? After yesterday-“

“I’m fine.” He gruffed out, looking over Cara’s shoulder instead of at her.

“Well, I know you and your brother are planning on leaving soon, to get back to Whiterun. Thank you, by the way for coming to help us. It means a lot to me. But I was thinking that we will join you on the way back, stay in the city for a few weeks, relax a little.”

His grey eyes slid to hers. “We?”

“Miraak and I.”

His jaw clenched. “Farkas and I are leaving before dawn tomorrow.”

“But Farkas said-“

“Change of plans,” he brushed past her. “I’ll see you in Whiterun.”

Cara turned, but the Nord had already rounded a corner and disappeared. Her eyes were wide, brow knitted together in confusion.

* * *

“It’s been three days since we’ve been back, and I still feel like it isn’t over.”

“That was your first true battle,  _ dii kest _ . It’s understandable.”

“All those soldiers, they died, and we killed them. They didn’t want to be there, not truly. So many of them were probably poor, from the streets, conscripted to pay debts, provide for their family.” She shook her head. “This is what I’m scared the most about if the Thalmor try and start another war, that so many will die for nothing, because they were forced to.”

A large hand tilted her chin up to catch her gaze. “That is something to worry about for another day. Now, we should finish packing, and rest. We have a long journey to Whiterun tomorrow.”

Cara leaned forward, resting her forehead on his chest. “You’re right, of course you’re right. I just can’t help but worry.”

“You worry because you care so much,  _ dii kest _ . There is nothing wrong with that.” His chest rumbled as he spoke softly.

“I love you.” She murmured.

“And I, you.”


End file.
